Howl at Hallowed Ground
by RainEcho129
Summary: Wendy Moira Angela Darling has been playing dangerous games in Neverland for a long time. Peter tries out a new dance, and she matches him step-for-step. Smutty, fairly dark-ish. Cunning!Wendy Possessive!Peter
1. Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest

**Hey there, everyone! So, this is my first contribution to the Darling Pan ship ****_and _****the OUAT fandom, so please be kind :)**

**Just to clarify: this is an AU in which Peter never sent Wendy back to London, and allowed her to be part of the Lost Boys. I have this headcanon where, if this ****_did _****happen, she wouldn't be as innocent as we see in the TV show, but something much more manipulative and cunning. I also got the feeling that Wendy is a lot more resourceful than she lets on, and that her natural compassion allows her to learn Neverland- and Peter- over the years. So, she'll be kinda OOC... sorry about that.**

_Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest_

There's something exhilarating in running away from him, even if she knows he'll catch her. He _always _catches her.

Wendy can feel the adrenaline pounding through her veins, like liquid lightning, tearing laughter from her mouth and breath from her lungs. She whips past branches, ferns, trees- they leap up to meet her but this is a game she's played for a _very _long time, so their stretching limbs are no match for the grace of her feet. The forest is as untrustworthy and malevolent as _him, _but nobody knows Peter Pan like she does. Nobody can manipulate, plant thoughts in his head and press his buttons like Wendy Moira Angela Darling can.

He was festered from the bones of the forest, the wickedest heart of it all- yes, he was birthed from a woman once but his roots were always set in Neverland- but Wendy has spent decades testing his limits and knows exactly how and where to poke him.

Her feet pound against the forest floor, erratic as her heartbeat as she twists and turns and careens away from the evil fingers of the trees. She shrieks with laughter, eyes streaming, and knows that the sound will only serve to anger him further.

No matter. He humiliated her in front of the Lost Boys; his punishment is her escape.

She can hear his faint roar of fury in return and she bares her teeth in what could pass as a grin, to her, but perhaps this is her wilder side clawing to the surface.

In the stories, Wendy is the mouse, and he is the cat.

Here, though, in this nightmarish mockery of a child's tale, Wendy is something much fiercer.

"WENDY," his incensed call splinters through the dark dampness of the forest, "_WENDY!_"

She stops. Smiles. This is the best bit. He's always _so angry _when he catches her, his face the most hilarious shade of crimson. He drags her back to camp, but he gets flustered and erratic when he's mad, so his words don't hold the same sting, and she's free to laugh at him. A fitting response, she thinks.

A nearby tree extends its limb towards her, an attempt to capture, but she grasps onto it and hauls herself up. Sticky green sap trickles through the gaps in her fingers, but she pays it no mind. It's the red stuff she has to look out for. _Green is good, red is blood, _she thinks.

She uses the calluses on her palms and heels to scramble up the thick bough and into the canopy. It takes her less than thirty seconds, experienced as she is. Ninety years- give or take- of clambering up these malicious things has strengthened the muscles in her thighs and abdomen, given her a mentality of _grit your teeth and do it._

Wendy longs for her brothers, for Bae, but she owes the pure strength of will that erupts within her to Peter's playground.

Neverland has changed her heart. She's no longer full of fairytales. The games she plays now aren't for children- they are darker, of the mind and its sins. She toys with temptations, pulls strings that aren't meant to be pulled.

She hears the soft rustling of leaves that signals Peter's arrival; his feet have set upon the ground. She sits on a thick branch, her feet dangling over the edge and nightgown collected about her thighs. It is an un-ladylike way to sit, yet Wendy cannot bring herself to care. There is dirt between her toes, green sap on her fingers, twigs in her dress and not a worry in her blackened soul.

She thinks that, if she were to take it out of her chest, the edges of her heart would be dark with soot. She is still a believer, but perhaps she believes in the shadows as much as the light.

"Wendy," he warns, low and dangerous.

She bites her lip to keep from calling back to him, jeering at him as he jeers at her. The longer she draws this out, the longer he is angry. He procured the demons from her soul and spread them out in the open, for all the Lost Boys to see and they _laughed at her._

_Pretty little mouse, longing for a kiss, _he'd taunted, _longing for Husband? For Bae?_

At the mention of her friend's name she'd lost the last ounces of control she'd had over her temper and had lashed out, shrieking, clawing at his face with bitten nails. She'd left red marks on his cheeks. Tears stained her own. He'd laughed and caught her wrists in his long-boned hands, drawing her to his chest.

_Would he love you now? _Peter had asked, smirking down at her. _Would he love you now, with your black heart?_

Wendy rotated her wrists (Tink had taught her, after seeing the horrid bruises on her arms) and broke his hold. She'd wanted to be strong, to hiss _I don't need love my heart is gone _but a sob escaped her bitter mouth, more furious than sad.

Peter has a way of looking to the very marrow of her, as if he knows exactly what she is thinking. He knows exactly what to say to make her weep, to make her rage, to make her laugh. She knows him better than anyone else, but he knows her to the core.

This is her only cruelty.

She had waited until they were all out exploring, falling behind when Peter was distracted. The mermaids always preened when he was near, and their obvious adoration for his looks ensured Wendy a gap in his concentration.

She'd slipped away, unnoticed, while the sea-creatures had flipped their hair prettily at him. Wendy rather likes the mermaids, or the _idea _of them, anyway. She can now appraise the idea of being so beautiful that men won't think twice of going to their deaths, as long as they are praised with a kiss from you.

That kind of power is to be relished, she thinks. In a place where Peter is in control, where he is King (_there are no kings in Neverland,_ he said to her once, but she knows that even without a crown Peter rules all), the authority to lure someone to their demise with a smile is not so repulsive an idea as she may have once thought.

It hadn't taken him long to realise she was gone, though. Wendy has long suspected that the singing of the wind through the tall branches of the willow-trees sounds like something more akin to speech to the ears of Peter Pan, and they had been singing particularly loudly as she tore along the forest floor. Neverland speaks to him, but occasionally she can interpret the whispers, predict them in a way that even Felix cannot.

"Where are you?" Peter asks. "Wendy-bird, _where are you?_"

She can hear the dry cracking of the bark on the trees as they respond to his demand, leaning towards him when she will not. They creak and groan like old men, like parched lips. The forest is at his beck and call, it _is _him and the soil of it lives in his bones. The mermaids call him _forest-born, _convinced that a being for whom the trees bend and the grass sways cannot be of human stock.

Wendy calls him Peter, and nothing else.

He calls her Wendy-bird, Darling, _mouse_.

She is no mouse. She may have been meek, and mild, once- but now they are nothing more than masks to hide the venom within.

Peter is walking slowly round the crop of trees she hides within, trailing his long fingers against the bark. "Darling…" he murmurs, his tone a mockery of sweetness.

He knows she's there. Game over.

Wendy sighs. "Yes, Peter?"

He looks up at her, gives her one of his sharp smiles. "Come home, Wendy-bird."

"My home isn't here." She retorts, but shimmies down the tree anyway. He's there to offer her a hand, but she kicks it out the way with a bare foot. This earns her a scowl.

"You've been _here _longer than you've been _there._" Peter reminds her as she leaps the last few feet to land beside him.

She wipes her sap-stained hands on her dress. It's new- he gave it to her only a week before, and she's ruined it already (he notices this with a twist of his mouth). "Home is where the heart is, I suppose." She says breezily.

His returning scowl is soothing as cool water. "Your heart-"

"Isn't here."

His lips thin.

Wendy is not naïve, not anymore. She could only be a fool if she hadn't noticed Peter's possessiveness over her. He wants her to love him with her whole heart, even if he doesn't love her back. She is a trophy to him, but the collection can only be complete with the adoration in her eyes that the mermaids hold, and she shall never give him that.

They never address the topic, even though they are both fully aware of the circumstances. It is a game, like everything else, a dance to be performed. He steps forward, she steps around him, but _never _back.

He gifts her with a dress, she ruins it without a care.

He leaves forget-me-nots on the doorstep of her little house, she crushes them underfoot every day until they disintegrate.

It's somewhat amusing, to Wendy. He can never say the words outright, never say _I want you_, can only send convoluted signals to her with gifts and innuendos- he's like a little boy. That used to be fitting, but now it seems odd on his frame.

Interestingly enough, he seems to be stuck- he's grown, over the past few years, and so has everyone else, but _he _seems to be between boyhood and something older. His shoulders are broader, his arms stronger. There is a hunger in his gaze when he looks at her now, a heat behind his smirk, something she delights in adding to their dance.

She can make him blush and stutter with nothing but the creamy skin of her décolletage, a hand brushing against his leg.

Wendy, herself, is older. Her limbs are longer, her words sharper, her breasts small but full and the dark curls at the apex of her thighs are no longer thin and downy but thick and coarse. From what she remembers of London society, she is now ready to be courted. She is a twisted mockery of a Lady, now. She runs through forests and bites as much as she smiles, and her dances aren't waltzes but rather dark, twisted steps of desire.

He's glaring at her, his dark mood clouding his eyes like baited breath. The forest stirs around them, humming with energy. He moves closer.

She goes to step away from him, to go back to her little house or maybe to Tink's for tea, but he catches her with an arm about her waist and _pushes._

Wendy stumbles back, catches herself with the help of a few complicated steps, but he's already _there, _pressing her back to the tree.

He's close, now, so close and she hasn't prepared for this she doesn't know the dance- doesn't know what to do when he's pinned her arms above her head and his knee is wedged between her legs- doesn't know how to get out of it- doesn't know if she _wants _to, when that curious but too-familiar ache at the core of her thighs starts up at the contact. Heat unfurls in her belly, flowers in the spring.

"Darling," Peter murmurs, his lips ghosting over her cheek, "I'm not finished." His voice is sure, cocky, but she can tell he has even less idea of what he's doing than she does.

She shudders, but it's not entirely from fear. Does Wendy even feel fear, anymore? Anger, yes. Hatred, of course. But she cannot remember the last time Peter scared her. Perhaps the tumultuous beating of her heart has nothing to do with panic. "Stop." She tries to order him, but it comes out breathy and wanton.

They're close enough that, when he smiles, she can see the dimples in his cheeks in excruciating detail.

He uses the length of his fingers to trap both her wrists in one hand, trailing the other down her arms, her face, her neck, to the front of her dress. He bends to press his lips to her throat while he slowly undoes the ties, kissing her trembling skin.

"You've been teasing me, Wendy-bird," he murmurs against her neck, "you've been making me want you."

_I want you_, his eyes say, and the electricity of the phrase makes her move against his knee, desperate for friction.

His lips are clumsy, whisper-soft, but it's enough to send a coil of heat rippling through her. "How?" she asks, even though she knows. But while it's one thing to know, it's another to hear it from his lips. She wants him to admit it.

She wants to hear him say the words, describe to her _exactly _what she's been doing, what he wants her to do. She wants him to spill his desires, to give her ultimate power over him.

Peter nips at her collarbone, and she clamps her lips down on the squeak that threatens to escape. "You know- you _know._" He moves his leg from between hers, and she nearly keens at the loss.

"Tell me." Her voice is far from steady.

His fingers undo the last of the ties, and her dress falls, open, to the floor between them. He lets go of her arms, shock registering on his face.

She's not wearing undergarments. Well, of course she isn't. It's too hot, far too hot, for anything as cumbersome as petticoats under a _nightgown. _At least she wears knickers.

He wets his lips. Her eyes flick down to his pants, and she can see that he's just as affected by the whole thing as she is.

She clears her throat nervously, and this seems to jolt him back into the real world. The shocked expression is gone, replaced by smug superiority, in a matter of seconds.

"Expecting this, were you?" Peter asks, reaching out to skim his fingers along the smooth expanse of her belly.

"Don't be stupid." She tries to snap, but her voice is strangled.

He comes closer. His fingers trail lower, just above the line of her knickers, and she tilts her hips in a silent plea for him to go lower. The forest is singing louder now, almost as loud as the blood rushing in her ears. "You want me, too."

There's not much use denying it, now. Her chest is heaving, her heart is thrumming like a hummingbird against her ribs, and her knickers are embarrassingly wet. She says nothing, and his hand stills.

_Ah. _She understands the game, now, and he's played her into a corner. Her brain is foggy, and she finds she doesn't _care _if she's giving in, as long as he just goes _lower._ "_Yes_," she finally blurts out, eyes blazing, "yes."

Peter's returning grin is like a razor. He hooks his thumbs in her underwear and pulls them down, over her thighs, letting them drop to her ankles.

She doesn't have time to kick them off before his hand is cupping her mound, before one of his thin fingers is slipping through the dark curls to her soft heat.

Wendy can't hold back a breathy moan, and she winds her arms around his neck, pressing her naked chest to his. His other hand comes up to tangle itself in her riotous hair, pulling her head back roughly and slanting his lips over hers.

The kiss is clumsy, more a clashing of teeth and tongue and desperation, but the steady stroking of her core and the way he breathes _Wendy-bird _into her mouth like a prayer makes her skin tingle. He kisses her til she's dizzy, til she can barely stand, murmuring words of ownership and need against her lips. He tastes like the plump purple berries found on bushes near the mermaid's lagoon, like sweat, like pounding hearts and sharp teeth. She bites his lip, _hard, _demanding that he knows she's not giving up without a fight. He may have boxed her into a corner but Wendy is no stranger to clawing her way out of tight spots.

She tastes iron in her mouth, but he doesn't care. Violence makes his blood sing, and he chuckles against her lips before kissing her with renewed vigour. It almost _hurts, _that bruising clash of mouths, but stopping it would mean losing.

Wendy grasps his wrist, guiding it to the knot of nerves she can feel _throbbing_, swollen with arousal.

Peter pulls away from the kiss, studying her expression, when his fingers brush against the spot and she cries out his name, partly in shock but mostly in pleasure. He looks curious, but a smug smile curls at the corners of his lips. His hand unwinds itself from her hair and to her breast, passing his thumb over her nipple. He chews his lip in thought, then leans forward to taste it. He gives it a long, good lick- he _never _does anything tentatively- eliciting a shaky exhale from her lungs. She arches her back, pressing her breast into his mouth and keening.

"_Oh,_" Wendy gasps. She claws at him, desperate to feel _more, _even if it is only skin under nails, and twists her fingers in his hair, pulling at the thick brown strands.

His tongue swirls against the pebbled flesh, lapping against it until it's hard and soaked in his saliva. Wendy rocks her hips and pulls at his hair, bringing his head up lick his neck. His pulse is hammering underneath her mouth, and she can practically _feel _the rumbling groan in his throat. His excitement is an edge upon which she can cling, something she can dig her fingernails into in order to keep from falling.

He presses the fingers of his other hand harder, again and again, against the bundle of nerves, and it feels as if something is building in her belly. It feels as if a star is exploding. Her breaths come in shuddering gasps, in sobs, and it's all she can do to focus on teasing the skin of his neck with her teeth. She nips, then licks, nips and licks her way up to his jaw, where she presses soft kisses up to his ear.

A shiver wracks through him, and Wendy knows she's nowhere near to having the upper hand, but she's one step closer than she was before.

It's a tug-of-war between pursuing her own pleasure, or feeling him shatter beneath her hands. Mindlessness, or upmost control.

Wendy slides one of her hands down from his shoulder, down his chest. She wants to undo his buttons, make him as naked as she is, bite his skin until he _bleeds_, but she doesn't think she has much time before she loses the game. So, she moves past the tempting expanse of leanly-muscular chest and straight to the belt of his pants. She tugs it, once, twice, until it comes loose, and it's easy then to slip her hand inside his trousers and wrap it around his- what had Tink called it? _Cock. _

The word is vulgar, but in this game Wendy knows there is no room for primness.

She wraps her hand around his cock, and he convulses and groans, but his hand does not falter, so neither does hers.

Wendy tries to recall the crude stories Tink told her over tea, ones that sent them spiralling into giggles- but her mind is… muddled. The pleasure washing through her is building, so she decides to learn from experience.

A thumb moving over the tip of it makes Peter whine, and he retaliates with a long, smooth stroke of his finger. She plants a kiss to his earlobe, feeling his heartbeat quicken, as the motion sends sparks through her abdomen. Wendy begins to move her hand, slowly, up and down the velvety skin of his cock, faster when his hips thrust forward of their own accord. But, as his pleasure builds his hand quickens, and soon the edge she has built for herself crumbles away, leaving her to fall down, down, down.

The sensation is like crashing waves, like a rubber band snapping, and she collapses against him, hips bucking helplessly on his hand, muffling her whimpers in his shoulder. Her hand moves from his cock to grip his hip, but he doesn't seem to care.

He shouldn't- he's won.

Peter lets her ride it out, pressing open-mouthed kisses along her neck. "Mine," he mumbles, and she can't summon the strength to protest.

He lets her stay in his arms for minutes afterwards, before positioning her, gently, on the ground. Her whole body is thrumming, her limbs pleasantly sore. He's crouched next to her as she lies back on her elbows, watching. His trousers are still loose, and she can see the thick, hard cock, glistening with something she doesn't know the name of.

He examines his hand, coated in her pleasure. Before she can stop him, he brings his index finger to his lips and slides out his tongue to taste the sticky, briny fluid.

"Peter-" she exclaims, in disgust, but he holds her gaze as he sucks slowly on the digit.

His lips are wet and cherry red when he takes it from his mouth, and it shouldn't be as inviting as it is. He quirks a brow, shoots her one of his knife-like smirks. "You're pretty, when you come." He drawls, and something strums low in her abdomen at his tone.

_Come. _How does he know that word? Tink would tell her if Peter had been asking about things like that. Has he been listening to the pirates? It sounds so innocent, compared with what the word means. It sounds… purer, somehow, than the shameless groaning and pleasure that it entails.

Peter leans forward and kisses her before she can show her surprise, his thumbs bruising her hips. She tastes something else on her tongue, this time, something other than the berries and sweat. With a jolt, she realises it's _her,_ her sticky juices- and that knowledge makes her sigh into his mouth, before she can stop herself.

She feels his grin, cutting like glass. The hands on her hips loosen.

This is her chance. She kicks at his thigh, making his supporting knee collapse underneath him and pushes him onto his back.

Peter Pan is quicker than most, but Wendy Moira Angela Darling has never been _most._ So, when she straddles his hips and pops open the first two buttons of his shirt, he can't do much but sneer at her.

He goes to place a hand on her waist, but she slaps it away. "Don't touch me," she hisses.

She's in control, now. She undoes the rest of his shirt, pulling it down his arms roughly.

"Bit- bit late for that," he snorts, but his voice is unsteady when she leans down to trace a path from his neck to his abdomen with hot, open-mouthed kisses.

"I _meant_," she grits out, "don't touch me _now._"

She moves lower on his legs, reaching to tug his pants down to his knees.

His cock stands, erect. Intimidating, almost.

Peter catches her eyeing it up and lets loose a loud, obnoxious laugh. "You scared now, mouse?"

She glares at him, then hits back by placing a long, wet lick from the base, near the dense thicket of coarse dark hair, to the tip.

His head thuds back to the ground, and his hips jerk as he gives a desperate shout. Wendy leans over him, until they are nose to nose.

"I," she seethes, "am not scared of _anything. _Least of all _you._"

Peter stares up at her, dark eyes unfathomable, panting. She expects him to sneer, to toss cruel words in her face, but instead he leans up on his elbows and touches his mouth to hers in a soft caress. It's chaste, and his mouth is closed, but it makes her heartbeat quicken.

Wendy jerks back as if she's been burned, furious. He's using the soft touches that she craves from the Husband she dreams of to confuse her, to knock her off course, and _it will not work._

His expression is hurt, but it's a façade- it _has_ to be a façade- and she lands her next strike by taking him into her mouth.

She'd be lying if she says she knows what to do; the only 'lessons' she has to go on are Tink's exploits. So when she hollows her cheeks and swirls her tongue round the head of his cock, she's improvising.

Peter doesn't seem to be complaining at her lack of experience, though. She moves her head up and down along his shaft and he moans, his hips bucking, but she digs her fingernails into the skin there and they stop.

She takes her mouth from him with an unrefined _pop_, and says, "Don't move."

He nods at her, eyes glazed over and probably the most complacent she's ever seen him.

Wendy licks him again, this time taking her time to suck and kiss and lick as she pleases. He makes rough, guttural noises that send heat to her core, and his fingers twitch spasmodically. She looks up at him, and he's watching her at work, his mouth slightly open and his eyes hooded.

His hair sticks up in wild clumps from their earlier tryst against the tree, his mouth red and bruised, purple marks all along his throat and jaw from her teasing teeth. He looks undone, and Wendy's centre clenches at the sight.

She takes him in her mouth once more, her eyes never straying from his (she wants to watch him crash and burn), and hums with pleasure when she sees his expression become desperate.

"_Wendy-_" he chokes out, and then a shudder goes through him and he calls her name again, hips rutting and his cock hitting the back of her throat.

She gags, reels back, and hot, thick spurts of white fluid hit her chest. It's a mess, but she doesn't care because Peter is barely breathing, lying on the floor with his arms outspread and his body bared to her, beaten.

Wendy leans forward, her naked breasts brushing against him, and sinks her teeth into the flesh of his chest. This brings him back to life, yowling.

She releases him, and sits back on his hips. She can feel his cock underneath her. There is a bite mark just below his left collarbone, already blossoming into a bruise.

He scowls at her. "What was _that _for?" he demands.

Wendy brushes her fingers over the mark. "You moved." She says, simply, but they both know it is much more than that.

It's a sign of ownership, a declaration to Neverland that Peter is _hers_, now. She was so, so behind at first- the steps were new, the dance foreign- but she has taken him apart with the touch of her lips, put him back together again as something different and the thought makes her heart beat wildly with a sense of glory, of the win.

He's lost the game.

He doesn't seem to mind much, though. He reaches up and brushes his thumb over her lip. She knows she should turn her head away, but finds herself leaning into the touch. She's high on her victory, high on the knowledge that she owns Peter Pan.

She knows it's a desperate grab for power, but his gaze is soft and content, so she lets him. For now.

Peter sits up, sliding an arm about her waist to keep her from falling back (as if she'd ever allow such a thing), and settles with her in the circle of his legs. Her thighs are splayed, either side of his chest, her bare buttocks in the grass. His shirt is still on his arms, and she tugs it back on for him without thinking. She tries to make it look business-like, detached, but her fingers stray over the wiry muscle in his arms and he smirks rakishly.

He _knows, _anyway. She may have won but there is no mistaking the frantic, pleading noises he drew from her lips or the fact that she came _first, _in _his _arms.

She won the war, but Peter was the victor of at least one battle.

"You went swimming." He says, out of the blue, and she shoots him a questioning look.

"What?"

"You wanted to know how you were teasing me," he replies, cupping her breast in one of his large hands, "and I'm telling you. Last month, you were swimming."

"I go swimming lots." She snaps, ignoring how _good _that feels, how the warmth from his fingers leeches into her skin.

"I don't always see you, though."

She's painfully aware of how open she is to him, her legs spread wide. "So?"

He flicks his thumb over her nipple. She fights to keep her breathing level, her gaze cool and disinterested. "I saw you… no clothes," his voice becomes a soft croon as his other hand trails down to her hot centre, "_wet_."

"Wet." Wendy tries to make the word come out deadpan, but his fingers are already sliding through the dense hair of her mound and to its core, stroking the sensitive flesh, and it comes out as a breathy sigh.

He kisses her slowly, luxuriously, full of smugness that is completely out-of-place. "Very." He purrs. "Wet and pretty and _naked_… you knew I was there."

Wendy bares her teeth at him. Yes, she'd known. The forest always acts a certain way when he's near, as if it's stirring, something that he doesn't know and will _never _know, not from her. Wendy had seen the trees on the edge of her private pool tremble in his wake, and she'd been so _sick _of his taunts. She had wanted to make him squirm, like he made her when he stared at her lips or legs. When he brushed his knuckles over her cheek. When he sent her a searching look over the campfire or sucked the berry juice from his fingers.

So she had leaned back on the rock she sat upon, and trailed her fingers up and over her breasts, rubbing her nipples and staring into the trees where she knew he would be sitting, watching. "I knew."

Peter bites his lip, and slides a finger _into _her, and her nails dig into his arms. "You touched yourself… your-" he swallows thickly, "-your breasts."

"I did." She whispers, rocking into his hand. She feels as if her nerves are on fire, clenching around his finger.

He pumps his index steadily into her, right up to the knuckle then drawing out to the tip before plunging in again, circling the sensitive knot every three or so strokes, creating a delicious tension in her abdomen.

His eyes don't stray from hers, watching as she struggles to maintain her control. She tilts her hips down, so her wetness slides against his cock, and he emits a long, drawn-out groan. It twitches underneath her, but remains only half-hard.

"I was so…" his voice cracks and his expression turns dark, furious.

Wendy gives him a smirk of her own. A sign of weakness. "So…?" she prods, smugly.

He presses his thumb down, harsh, against the bundle of nerves, and her hips twist upwards at the ambiguity between pain and pleasure. It sends shockwaves through her, and she has to bite her lip to keep from screaming out.

Perhaps she and Peter are not as different as she thought.

"So_ hard._" He groans, grinding slowly up against her wet core.

His cock stiffens in response, as if his words were an order. The words are a surrender, an admission of her influence over him. Her returning grin is sharp and grating.

Something deliciously warm, so different to the electric white-hot sensation she'd felt before, unfurls in her belly and she gives in to the insistent rocking of his member against her core, rolling her hips and leaning forward to kiss him.

The kiss is as slow and lazy as their hips, a hot, wet slide of lips and tongue. It's still a game. A competition.

He swirls his fingers until she sighs against his tongue. She reaches around and pumps his cock until he moans into her mouth.

Wendy comes gently this time, slowly, shuddering and thrusting against Peter's hands. White lights burst behind her eyelids- when did she close them?- and she whimpers out a cry, breaking the kiss. He watches her throw her head back, and leans forward to suckle on her exposed throat.

She flicks her thumb once, twice, three times over the head of his cock and he follows shortly after, the thick fluid painting their thighs, her fingers. She wipes them on the grass.

She meets his gaze. He looks dizzy, fatigued, but content. She leans close, her lips brushing against his ear, and whispers, "I win."

He scowls, his contentedness shattering in the wake of loss, but then it is replaced by a smirk. "Maybe," he muses, leaning back slowly to lie on the ground with her trapped against his chest, "we should have a rematch."

Wendy tries to roll away from him, but he winds his arms around her. She lies in the cage of his arms, her head pillowed on his chest and her legs tangled with his. It doesn't feel much like a game anymore, but she isn't about to let him disconcert her. "Later." She says, and digs her fingers into the bruise on his chest.

Peter hisses at the pain, tugs sharply on the strand of her hair he's wound around his finger, but doesn't say anything.

Idly, through the fog of sleep, she wonders when she became as much a part of Neverland as any of the Lost Boys, perhaps even more so- she is not Wendy Darling of London society, any more. She hasn't been for a very long time.

Wendy wonders which version of herself is more real- the one who is sweet and kind, who lived for thirteen years, or the one who bites where she should soothe, who bares herself for all to see but is _never _weak, who has lived ever since Peter declared that she would stay.

She lets her eyes slip closed.

Around them, the forest _sings._


	2. To Taste Your Beating Heart

**This is the second instalment of ****_Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest_****. I was originally just going to leave that as a oneshot, but I literally have ****_zero _****self-control and I just have a lot of feelings about Darling Pan, OK?**

**Smutty, dark feelings that I should probably see someone about.**

***coughs***

**Anyway. Read and review!**

_To Taste Your Beating Heart_

Wendy has never liked Felix.

The other Lost Boys are fine, she supposes. Once they stopped thinking of her as _Mother _or _girl _and recognised she was far from the little child who'd cried when she realised mermaids weren't as sweet as she thought, they had welcomed her as one of their own. She spends most of her time with Tootles, really. He's funny and easy-going and doesn't shy from a game of Dare, _ever._

They've spent the years seeing who can climb the tallest tree or who can scale the rock at Pirate's Cove the fastest (a record which he holds, much to Wendy's irritation). Their friendship consists mainly of crude jokes and the solid camaraderie she once had with her brothers, but nothing deep. She makes it her business to know _everything _about her friends, but it is no longer out of a caring heart. It's strategy.

Tootles can never lie to her, no more than he can out-think the Pan. She likes him anyway. She is never surprised by Tootles, always knows exactly what to expect.

Felix, however, is something of a mystery. Wendy despises this with all that's left of her heart, rages about it in her head while keeping her expression carefully blank, imagines striking his stupid, smirking face _again _and _again _and _again _until-

She knows what it is that irks her. She can never tell how Felix will react to something, whether he'll laugh or screech or lash out, particularly when it comes to _her. _Where Peter is cruel in a way that is somewhat boyish and reparable with the silly gifts he gives her or the jokes to make her laugh almost seconds after he's made her blood boil, Felix has a special brand of cruelty which makes her itch.

It's not that he _does _anything, not really. It's in the way he watches her and the other boys stitch up whatever wounds they've gotten that day. It's in the way he gives a small, half-smile at the corner of his mouth whenever a Lost Boy hisses in pain. It's in the way he stares at the blood, something greedy alighting in his eyes.

Felix thirsts for violence, even more so than Peter himself.

(even more so than she does)

He sets her teeth on edge.

"What're you so quiet for?" Peter asks, tugging on his trousers.

He'd cornered her in the middle of the forest again, while she was picking berries for the cake Tootles had (tried) to make.

It was a week from the first time. A week after she'd woken up, still resting in his arms, and had nearly died from shame when she rolled over and found _Tink, _of all people (or fairies), holding out her nightgown to her with a smirk on her face.

Needless to say, Wendy had taken her clothes and _ran,_ back to the camp, back to where all the other boys were asleep.

Peter had stormed into her room the next morning, when she refused to go out exploring, and had demanded to know why she'd been gone when he'd woken up.

She'd kissed him to shut him up, and things had escalated from there.

That day, he hadn't even bothered to undress her, just reached under her dress while she braced herself against the tree and stroked her until she came apart, trembling and whimpering out his name.

Of course, she couldn't let him win like that, so she'd pinned him to the ground the first chance she'd got and made him _beg._

_Wendy, _he'd gasped, when she pressed his hips to the floor and let her mouth hover above his stiff, aching cock, _please, please come on _please.

He never seems to mind _too _much when he loses, a fact that Wendy can't quite wrap her head around.

"Just stunned," she replies, smirking at him, "I never expected the _great _and _powerful _Peter Pan to beg. How _cute_."

He does, however, object to being called _cute _or any other similar adjective.

"Right." Peter growls, stalking towards her. "I suppose I'll be returning the favour, then."

She tries to run away, but she's laughing too much (and probably wants him to catch her, but she skims over this thought) and he catches her about the waist and practically _throws _her to the ground.

Wendy lands with a thud, her head smacking against the dirt, but she's too annoyed at his audacity to care. "_You-_" she begins, incensed, but he's already pushed her gown up and over her knees, and she's tilting her hips anyway, so she simply props herself back on her elbows, watching.

It's an odd position to do this, really. Usually he has her standing while he reaches into her most intimate place, so he can watch her come apart and feel her skin prickle. She's noticed he likes it when she collapses _onto _him, like he's the only thing keeping her standing (often, he is, but she'll die before she admits this).

She'd avoid that, if it didn't make him breathless with want. A tool for her to use.

Wendy has already learned him, learned his tricks, learned what he likes and doesn't like.

His body is a game; press the right buttons, make the right moves, and she has won.

A kiss to his earlobe always makes him shiver, a thumb flicked across the head of his cock never fails to elicit a helpless whine. She knows he becomes obedient, _silent_, as soon as her mouth goes anywhere near it. She can make him beg, make him cry out her name.

He's almost as good, though. One heated look from him can make her flush, one swipe of his tongue against her lips can make her sag in his arms. It's infuriating, but at least she can dance the dance better than he.

Peter kisses the inside of her knee, a chaste peck, but then his head goes _lower _and he places scorching lips on her upper thigh and she jerks backwards.

"What are you doing?" she demands, teeth gritted.

He raises an eyebrow at her, hooks his hands underneath her calves and drags her back to him. He places his palms either side of her head as he leans over her, hips pressing against her core so that when she chokes down a whimper he catches it in his mouth.

He kisses her, long and hard and deep. She's (stupid) gotten used to the feel of his mouth over hers, the way he draws back to pepper light caresses on her jaw, then back again to taste her tongue, the way he kisses with his whole body, trying to consume her.

But, it is all a game, and she knows better than anyone a game is no fun without a challenge.

Wendy arches her back, pressing close to him and snagging his lip between her teeth. She bites down until the familiar burst of blood, coppery and warm, slides down the back of her throat. She rams her hips up, _up, _grinding against him, and slides her hands into his hair so she can kiss his ear, just the way he likes.

Peter is gasping with need when he looks at her, dark eyes brewing a storm, and says, "Returning the favour."

He slides, almost _slithering _down her body, until his head is so _close _to her mound that she can feel his hot breath through her knickers.

_He's not going to_- the thought is cut off, though, when he lowers his head and plants a blistering kiss against her core, his tongue sliding out to rasp against the coarse fabric of her underwear.

Wendy's hips buck, electrified, and her thighs clamp shut over his ears. She puts her hand over her mouth, pressing hard, and tries to muffle the lustful cries that are tumbling from her mouth.

His hands come up to press against her hips, and he quirks his brow at her. _Don't move, _is the silent mockery, and her temper slices through the fog of her shock.

"How _dare _you!" she hisses through the cage of her fingers, but he silences her when he leans forward and takes the edge of her knickers in his teeth.

The forest around them comes alive as she watches, shocked (although she schools her features into a furious yet unimpressed mask, he obviously isn't fooled), while he slowly pulls her underwear down her legs.

His cheek slides down her skin- she can feel the thick, golden-brown waves of hair, his ears, his teeth. Wendy shivers. His smug excitement is written in the swaying of the trees.

Over the past few days, she has begun to wonder if the forest is not only whispering Neverland's secrets to Peter, but also reacting to his moods. She wonders why she never considered that, before.

Perhaps it's only becoming apparent to her now because she's spent a week listening to the wind howl in tandem with his moans swallowed in her skin, the thrusts of his hips, the whispers of _Wendy-bird Wendy-bird Wendy-bird _into her hair as she comes.

She hates it when she does that. When he pretends to be tender. He does it so _easily, _too- he returns her bites with licks, her bruises with kisses. He _knows _it throws her off-course, even after all these years, she still has that place in her charred heart left for _romanticism. _She still wants, deep down, someone to call Husband

(she doesn't need doesn't _need _anything)

Peter never speaks the words, though. She supposes that sweet nothings are too much of a lie, even for him.

She prefers it when he's possessive, _angry. _She always has control when he's shaking with rage. At supper, two night before, she'd baited him, _mocked _him for not knowing the story of Christmas.

_You look like Saint Nicholas, _she'd snickered at Tootles, who'd made a snow-white beard from some cotton he'd picked that day.

_Who?_ Peter had asked her, frowning. He had a hand resting on her thigh under the table. Little gestures of ownership that were increasing more and more. Who was he to touch her leg? It made her angry, like many things did, so she'd retaliated.

_You don't know? Stupid of you. _She'd laughed in his face, not bothering with answering his question.

The hand on her thigh had dug its nails into the soft skin (_no kinds in Neverland only me_), but she'd refused to show pain. She'd spent the rest of supper giving Tootles her upmost attention, placing her chin in her hand and hanging on his every word, her back to Peter.

Of course, he'd been waiting in her little house for her, apoplectic with rage. He'd dragged her inside, to her bed, but his fury clouded his judgement and she'd already gotten a hand down his trousers before he could barely spit out a word.

She'd reduced him to a shaking mess of anger and lust by the time the sky began to lighten, and as she leant over to kiss him, she tasted something like victory on his lips.

The power is addicting, she knows this. It's dangerous, too.

Every night, Wendy tells herself _no more,_ tells herself to heed the warning Tink gave her over tea the day after she stumbled upon them together. And every day, her resolve never goes further than one of his _stupid, _teasing, heated smirks. She can never let him have the upper hand, even if it means baring herself to him.

Holding him together, then tearing him apart feels too _good _to give up. It's an exhilaration nothing else can match; not dipping her toes in Mermaid's Lagoon, not goading Hook and his crew, _nothing._ She can manipulate Peter so much _better, _now; she can torture him with teasing touches that never _quite _satisfy or break him down until he quakes.

Beautiful.

Wendy knows she should probably be horrified at her behaviour. It's hardly becoming of a young Lady of society to be so vulgar, so _wild, _but Wendy has also not been a Lady for quite some time. And she thinks that around ninety years of not being able to touch Peter like she wants to, to _punish him, _allows her a bit of fun. And these dark games of the mind, of power and dominance, are the best fun she's had in _so _long. She can twist and play as much as she wants, and she knows that Peter won't be cowed- he'll give as best as he gets.

She couldn't have asked for a better opponent.

Her knickers hit the floor. She doesn't spread her legs for him (never, _never_), but he shrugs it off, sliding between them anyway. He presses his lips against her- Tink had said what they were called- _folds, _and watches her. His eyes are arrogant, his eyebrows raised, which is _far _more alluring than it should be.

The visual itself is almost too much- his hair is messy, sticking up wildly from her hands running through it (she likes his hair more than she'll ever admit), his cheeks are still flushed from their last encounter not five minutes before, his eyes staring at her from between her thighs. It's a hot, burning gaze. It rakes over her face with the kind of hunger she's seen only mimicked in wild animals.

She'll never look away, though. The challenge is present; suspended in the air between them, tangible enough to touch. Her heart is pounding, threatening to burst from her chest or crack a rib or _something. _She's aching again, aching for his touch, and it's almost painful how much her body is screaming out for it- she needs it, needs _more._

Peter's hands move back a little to grip her legs, his thumbs pressing on the backs of her thighs as he pushes them open. He's waiting for something.

_Returning the favour._

He wants her to beg.

Fury whips up within her, a familiar whirlwind that even Felix himself is wary of (Wendy is cool and calm, manipulative and _tricky _more than anything, but when she chooses she could paint the world red with her rage). But not Peter, never Peter. He's not afraid of her. She can shock him, occasionally, infuriate him, but never scare.

So when she lets loose a feral growl (oh, if her parents could see her now), he does nought but smirk against her mound.

And begin to move back.

Without thinking, Wendy clamps her thighs down on his head. He stills.

"_Don't you dare_," she spits, teeth bared and lip curled.

He bites her thigh, hard enough to make her hiss with the pleasure-pain that spikes up to her core. He soothes it with a lick, waiting.

The forest quiets, and the sound of Wendy's shuddering breaths becomes loud as crashing waves.

This is no coincidence. He _wants _her to be loud, to break her control, to beg.

She grits her teeth. Peter quirks his eyebrow at her in an _if you say so _sort of way, and begins to move back from her, but she snarls and screams "_Please!_" loud enough for the dratted _pirates _to hear.

The forest roars to life again as he plunges his tongue to her core, giving the soft heat a long, wet lick.

Stars burst and unfold beneath her skin, scratching the surface and scraping against the backs of her eyes. She struggles not to let them roll back into her head, forces herself to keep watching him watching her as he suckles, kisses and licks.

He kisses her core differently as he would her mouth- he uses no teeth, for one. She's glad about that. But he uses his tongue on her like he uses his fingers, and the sensation feels as if she's scrambling for something _more, _like nothing will ever be enough.

Although, when his mouth finds her clit (another nugget of information from Tink, who seems to have taken it upon herself to educate Wendy in the ways of sex) and stays there, she finds that this is very close to enough.

Wendy _moans, _louder than she ever has, and reaches down to tangle her fingers in his soft hair. She tugs on it, pushing it back from his forehead as he sucks her to near oblivion. His eyes never wander to his task, never leave her face, even when she uses her legs to draw him _closer_, pressing her core to his mouth.

She now realises exactly why Peter is always so obedient when she puts her mouth on him.

She locks her ankles at the seat of his back, tilting her hips up, and he gives her a _look _that's full of dark, angry lust- and that's it.

Wendy comes with a force she didn't know she had, white light erupting behind her eyelids as soon as they slip closed, a whining shriek tumbling forth from her lips, shaking apart at the seams with Peter's tongue still lapping at her, almost able to _taste _his smug smirk.

She throws an arm over her eyes, whimpering, and rides each wave of ecstasy, pushing up against his mouth and bucking into him until it's all gone from her body.

She's still lying there when she feels him prise her arms away from her face. She cracks open an eye, sees him smirking down at her with her juices all over his chin, and promptly closes it again.

"Wendy-bird," he says. "Wendy, look at me."

Her eyes are firmly shut. She's lost the game.

"_Wendy_."

When she stays resolutely silent, he tugs her into a seating position by the front of her gown and pushes it up past her waist, over her head, until she's completely naked.

The cool air washes over her sensitive flesh, making her shiver, and he pulls her into his lap. She can feel his cock, hard and hot, through his pants. She makes sure to wriggle, eyes still closed. He swallows, thickly.

(she may have lost, but Wendy has grown petty and doesn't shy from underhanded tactics)

Peter winds his hands in her hair, and pulls her head back sharply, exposing her throat. He teases the fevered skin with his teeth, lips slippery from her come, and she knows there'll be a purplish bruise by the time he stops.

Her eyes fly open.

They're careful not to leave visible marks on each other, at least not ones that can't be hidden under clothes (the bite mark on his chest has only just begun to fade), lest the others see- and that could have consequences.

Keeping this _thing_, this game of cat-and-something-fiercer a secret is _better_, anyhow. The stakes are higher. There's more to lose. It makes her breath quicken, knowing they could be caught. Knowing that one of the Lost Boys could see them kissing, or worse, makes her abdomen tighten and spark with barely-dampened electricity.

(not for the first time, Wendy wonders what her brothers would say)

"_Stop_." She snarls, commanding, but of course he doesn't.

He only sucks harder. So, Wendy does what she always does when Peter won't do as he's told.

She improvises.

Over the past week, Wendy's gone to Tinkerbell's house for tea every day. While there, Tink lectures her on the dangers and mechanics of the male body, in remarkable detail for a fairy trapped on an island full of boys. When Wendy mentioned this, Tink only smiled lasciviously and added _pirates, too_.

So, Wendy knows quite a bit about _what goes where, _a knowledge she didn't plan on using, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

She grits her teeth, placing both hands on Peter's chest and pushes with all the strength she can muster, which is actually quite a bit. He goes down rather quickly, his lips smacking when they come off her skin and his back slapping against the dirt. The beginnings of a scowl start to unfurl across the superiority of his expression, and Wendy knows she has to work swiftly.

She yanks down his trousers (his belt is somewhere off to the left, having been flung haphazardly in their haste that morning), freeing his cock, and curls her fingers around the warm, smooth skin of it. He hisses, thrusting up into her palm already, and when she straddles his hips his anger gives way to shock.

"Wendy-?" he begins, but it is cut off by the strangled groan that erupts from the depths of his throat when she sinks down onto him.

"_Shut up_." She commands anyway, using the nails of her other hand to dig deep, red marks into his arm.

He doesn't seem to notice. He's staring at where their bodies join, mouth agape, eyes glazed with pleasure. They flick up to her face and his mouth works furiously, but he stays silent.

It's awkward, none-too graceful, with her hand wrapped around his cock's base so she can get it in properly. Hurts, too- her muscles aren't used to this kind of thickness, and they clench around him automatically when they need to loosen.

Wendy bites her tongue against the stinging pain, swallowing the shriek of hurt when Peter cants his hips up and inside her, breaking through the barrier Tink told her about.

Her virginity. Gone, in a second. Is that all it takes? One thrust? _How pathetic, _she thinks, and wonders why it's of so much value. In her opinion, anything that can break that easily shouldn't even be thought of, much less considered important. That goes for people, too. In the world of Neverland, where _everything _is broken, sooner or later, you either toughen up enough to not show it, or you are eaten alive. She had to.

"Oh- _oh _- Wendy-" Peter groans, oblivious to her pain (but isn't that what she wants?).

She pushes away the hand that reaches for her face, pressing it to her hip instead. His eyes are shut, his mouth open and desperate. She looks down at him, her curls hanging around her face, and begins to move.

That helps, a little. Wendy prides herself on being able to push past any obstacle, and rocking her hips to match his gives her a sense of purpose, as well as sparks of _something _(pleasurepain) that makes her eyes flutter closed.

As she moves, she starts to learn _this, _as well. Rising to the tip of him, then taking him to the hilt again makes Peter's eyes fly open and his back arch. Tilting her hips back, then forward, then back again as he ruts into her makes him whine.

_It's a game, _she thinks to herself as a particularly deep thrust sends pure pleasure sparking to her toes, _just a game._

There are steps, there are strategies, and then there is a victor. She's sure it's going to be her. Her breasts bounce as she rises and falls, and she throws her head back and looks towards the sky, panting.

The forest is vibrating with life, the wind whipping through the leaves and branches and making wildlife scatter. It moves with his breath, erratic and sharp, rising to a crescendo at his moans and then, suddenly, quieting, as he rises up into a sitting position and pulls out of her.

Wendy gives a little whine from the loss of him, wet and _wanting_.

"Turn around," he commands, his voice hoarse.

She doesn't ask why. He pulls her into his lap, her back to his chest, her knees on either side of his thighs, and pushes, deeply and uncarefully, into her. His breath tickles her ear, one hand holding onto her hip as he moves, hips rolling, against her. It sends tingles of sensation up her spine, down her arms, to her core. He pulls her hair to the side, kissing away salty sweat at the nape of her neck.

_Oh._ She thinks, as he reaches around to paw roughly at her breasts. Her head falls back at the delicious friction from this new angle (how on _earth _did he figure that out), and he bites her at the junction between her shoulder and neck, hard enough to draw blood.

Wendy matches the rhythm of his hips, rolling them like he does, until it's less clumsy and more like the dance she compares it to. She takes him deep, pushing her pelvis _back, _and it feels as if they're merging- her back so close to his chest, the sweat sticking to them like a second skin- into one another. It's all she can smell, all she can feel, all she can taste. It's all _Peter Peter Peter._

She reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair again, as he laps at the blood, and it's not _enough_. There's so much- pleasure- pain- heat- but it's not enough. She's hovering over the edge of release, but no matter how much she grinds down on him, no matter how much he kisses her neck, no matter how much he hits that _spot _with each thrust, she needs more. It's a blazing hunger, raging from within, scorching her insides.

So Wendy grasps one of his hands and pulls it down to her clit. A few rubs of his calloused fingers against her, a rasping lick against her throat, and everything inside of her seems to simply _erupt._ It's the stars underneath her skin, waves crashing on the shore of her body, blood singing and white light _all at once. _She seems to vibrate with the force of it, blasting apart at the seams, and her muscles spasm around his cock, forcing a crazed moan from his swollen lips.

She calls out, head thrown back, shrieks his name and rides him, hips bucking and skin slapping, until he follows.

Peter groans a muffled _Wendy-bird, oh- _into her shoulder, but the rest is swallowed by a meaningless, shuddering growl that resonates through him. The forest shakes as he does, a tremor that quakes the soil beneath them.

She is the first to move. She slides off his lap, feeling the sticky seed leak out as she crawls to lie down on the soft grass beside him. He curls round her almost immediately, like he always does (_a tactic, _Wendy thinks, _don't let him soften your heart_), his right arm cushioning her head and his left coming up to rest on her hip. He likes to laze about, afterwards, and hates it when she won't.

"Stay, this time?" he whispers, lips against her hair, and her eyes widen.

She should say no. She should say _I'd rather be with the others _and watch the words cut at his hear- no, not _heart_. Watch the words cut at his _ego, _his _bravado, _watch them make his eyes stormy and his lips thin. It would be _oh so satisfying _to simply walk away, to know he was watching her go, fuming.

Peter is only pretending to be soft. To be loving. There is ice in the space where his heart should be, and he cannot love her. He cannot give her the warmth she needs (but doesn't deserve).

And ninety years of being an honorary Lost Girl have done nothing to soften her sharp edges, either. If Wendy is a two-edged sword then Neverland is a whetstone, and her time in this prison has made her cutting and deadly. She is hot where he is cold, burning with anger and bitterness and _longing._ She's still capable of love but it's only a shadow of what she could have felt, a meagre scrap of how her parents cared for each other.

They are fire and ice. Flame and shadow. They can only ever consume each other- it's the oldest story ever written. There will be no happy ending, for either of them.

"Alright." She says.

(it feels like something sweeter than losing)

Peter hides his smile in her hair, but she feels it anyway. He meant her to.

Wendy doesn't fall asleep. It's only morning, anyway, no matter how tired she is. She lets Peter rest for hours, until the sun is high in the sky and she figures its midday. Tootles will be wondering where she is with those berries, but he knows better than to come looking for her.

When they are dressed and Wendy's cleaned herself off in a nearby stream (it wasn't there the day before, but she doesn't even blink when Peter shows it to her), they start back to where the Lost Boys are probably gathering for games.

On the way, Peter catches her hand and kisses her, murmuring _mine, _barely audible, against her lips.

Panic strikes up in her heart. _Don't let him soften you._ She spits _never _at him, growls it, and bites his lip.

They don't get back to camp for another hour.

When they do, Wendy feels more like the bitter, manipulative witch she knows she is than she ever has before.

She wonders why she feels not _regret, _but something else.

(she doesn't see Felix glaring at her from the shadows, but Peter does)

**So, the bit about Felix is sort of unfinished, but it's foreshadowing. Promise. Hope you enjoyed :)**


	3. The Moon That Breaks The Night

**OK, so my life is in a downward spiral filled with not studying for exams and writing dark smutty things instead. AHAHA.**

**Oh and can we please have a support group for the latest episode I mean WHAT the everloving fuck.**

**This one has a little bit more of Wendy's backstory in it- AKA, when the hell she became all bitter and savage.**

_The Moon That Breaks the Night_

It was around one decade into her confinement in Neverland that Wendy decided she needed to grow a solid backbone.

She'd spent _ten years _being completely helpless, susceptible to Peter's every whim. When he got bored, she was the one who was chased through the forest and pelted with rocks. When he got angry, she was the one who was tossed around and hit until she bled.

(when he was happy, she was the one who got to go flying and she _ate it up she never resented pathetic little girl_)

The Lost Boys made her suffering a personal mission; they hit her, _beat _her, and it was all a game to them. They let jungle cats chase her for _miles_ until Peter would finally call it off, and she'd be sobbing, crying out for her mother when she got back to their camp, and then they'd boo and hiss at her until she was reduced to a blubbering _mess._

She loathed them for that. Loathed them with something broiling inside her that she hadn't quite understood in her innocence but had later come to learn its name.

_Bloodthirst._

She loathed them all, all except Tootles (perhaps), who only ever did as the others told him not out of malice, but out of self-preservation.

Survival was, and is, not something Wendy could judge anyone for.

And sitting, weeping on her bed one night after the Lost Boys had decided it would be _hilarious _to pretend they were going to throw her to the mermaids, with one hand pressed tight over her mouth lest the others hear, her body wracking with sobs (spasming up her spine, contorting her lips into something like a snarl but not yet, _not yet_), Wendy made a decision.

She looked at the bruises on her arms, the gashes left from pine cones hurled in her direction, the jeering laughter ringing in her ears, and decided that nobody was coming to rescue her. Not Bae, not John, not Michael. If Wendy wanted to survive, if she wanted to stop hurting, she _needed _to stop believing in her knight in shining armour.

There were no knights, here. Only demons with boys' faces, and cruel knives where fingers should be.

And if there were no knights, Wendy had to start acting less like a fairytale princess and more like a Queen. Princesses were the ones who waited to be rescued, who lay down and slept while Prince Charming galloped in on a noble steed and swept them into his arms. Queens did not lie down and accept their fate. Queens saw the world for what it was (_cruel and suffers no fools_) and forged their heart in what made it strongest, they moulded each unfairness into the steel of their souls to make their _own _armour and masked their pain and _never cried._

When the Neverland sky began to lighten, Wendy's tears had long since dried up.

She didn't cry when, at breakfast, Peter poured bugs into her milk and made her take a sip. She took a gulp instead, staring him down, swallowing the lump in her throat (she's not steel yet but it doesn't take much to snap something brittle and watch it heal). He laughed at her, said _little mouse_, the words snapping from his sharp mouth like something poison, and ignored her.

Small victories.

She didn't cry when Felix hit her in the side of her head with a pine cone. Perhaps she was too stunned for tears, but the expression on his face when she calmly touched the wound and examined the blood on her fingers (she didn't see the hunger scorching in his gaze, not yet) still felt like something beautiful.

She didn't cry when Tootles scraped his knee. She gave him a clean strip from her dress and left him, sick of playing Mother. Queens did not coo or cry at the wounded; they helped, yes, but they moved on.

Wendy only cried once. At night, where nobody could see, tears slipped down her cheeks and off the end of her nose. She had a hand pressed over her mouth, the other braced against the iron headboard of her little cot, but even while she cried, her quiet rebellion filled her with something like sunrise.

* * *

It was another year until Wendy stopped comparing herself to a Queen.

She was nothing _like _a Queen. She was not regal, she was not commanding. And who could be ruler of Neverland, other than Peter?

(Queen of the doomed, Queen who is damned)

Her heart was cold. Her skin was steel. Her tears, barely existent. Wendy was something _savage, _something crueller than a child had any right to be. _Was _she a child, anymore? When she thought about it, she was somewhere around twenty-four years old, in years. In the mirror, however, she was still thirteen. Yet, in the mirror, her hair was wild and laced with leaves, her face was smudged with dirt and blood, her nails caked with filth and _ragged _from climbing trees with Tootles.

The only crown she wore was made of thorns.

When Peter set the jungle cats on her, she shrieked with fear as she ran but there was laughter in there too, sliding underneath terror, murky water amongst rocks. She caught branches in her hands, hauled herself up at the _very last second, _feet dangling just above the creature's head.

She hooted and yelled as much as the rest of them, she baited the pirates and hissed _back _at the mermaids. She pushed Peter when he got too close, she found his weaknesses and used them as he used hers. She grew manipulative, callous everywhere except at night. She was not Mother, she was not Sister, she was a Lost Girl whose hidden kiss had given way to the snarl that sat on her mouth instead.

Wendy was never cut out to be a Queen.

* * *

"Felix doesn't like you." Peter comments one day, lounging on her bed.

His feet, encased in dirty boots (Wendy will never claim to be refined but even she objects to smudges all over her little house) are propped up on her pillows, and his lanky frame is draped all over her sheets. He's taken a liking to her bed, it seems. Or, he's taken a liking to watching her muffle her moans into its covers while he has his head in between her legs.

"Good." She says. "I don't like him, either." She's folding her clothes up, tucking them away in her drawers, watching him with wary eyes.

He's been in a dark mood for _days, _darker than usual, and while it's fun to manipulate him when he's at his most flighty, it's disorienting when he suddenly decides to take up residence in her home.

Peter rolls over onto his stomach, boots leaving dirty marks on her clean, white sheets. He fixes her with a quirked eyebrow, a sharp grin, and says "It's a different _not like_, though."

She sighs. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," he pulls himself up, long legs unfolding, "he hates you but he wants to fuck you, too."

"That doesn't work." Wendy retorts, sharply, her mind stuttering over the word. _Fuck._ It sounds so forbidden, so _harsh_.

It describes the act perfectly.

He walks towards her, until his hand rests on her shoulder and his breath stirs her hair. He's warm, warmer than she'd expect from someone carved from ice. It's an illusion, of course. A game. Like everything else. She turns her head to look at him, shrugging off the hand on her shoulder. His expression hardens for a split-second, before relaxing into the smug mask he favours so.

"Does." He retorts, and his eyes are stony and cold, despite his self-assured smirk and brow. "You hate me, but you like it when I-"

"_That's different._" She snarls, giving him a seething stare.

"Is it, Wendy-bird?" he smirks.

"Yes."

He doesn't bother answering, only grins down at her with eyes flat and dark as the ocean before a storm, a mouth full of knives. She almost wants him to hit her, to bruise her skin and be _done _with it- she's sick to death of this deadly calm that has descended over him, a steamy fog, and she's willing to do anything to get him _angry _again.

A furious Peter is unpredictable, violent, but at least Wendy knows how to handle him. A _moody _Peter, though, is like something stirring underneath muggy water, reptilian and skulking in the shadows. She needs to draw him out, to let him take the bait and spend his rage. He's no fun, like this. All danger and no _thrill._

Wendy turns to face him completely, leaning her back against her dresser. His eyes bore into hers, heat against cold, and there's something underneath the dark irises. Something frosty, venomous. A sensation like fear runs through the cracks of her heart, but she dampens it with sharp nails in her palms (_turn your weakness to pain and pain to strength)_ and curls her lips into a cat-like grin, close-mouthed and controlled (barely).

"Are you worried?" she asks.

Peter's eyebrow rises further. His eyes remain flinty. "About what?"

"About Felix. Fucking me." She makes sure to _taste _the word, to roll it in her mouth before letting it slide from her lips in a throaty croon. She looks up at him from under her lashes, tongue between her teeth.

His expression reveals nothing, but he gives himself away when he swallows, adam's apple bobbing. "No." he says easily, but Wendy knows if he _really _wasn't bothered he'd laugh in her face, spit cruel words from his mouth (_you can fuck anyone fuck Hook for all I care_) and crow to the forest in his malevolence.

Her smirk grows wider. She also knows that this wouldn't hurt her. The freedom would be a gift. A privilege, twisted as it is. The only thing that can hurt her now is a cage.

"Good. Because I _might_ just see if he'd like it." Wendy tilts her chin, raising an eyebrow.

She's got him, now. Trapped him with her words, with his own possessiveness. He's whispered _mine mine mine _over and over again but that's different to the overwhelming _weakness _of admitting he wants her to be his.

She has no illusions. Peter wants to own Wendy like another would own a dog, but no matter. He can never have full dominance over her; a Lost Girl is wilder than the jungle cats, and _nobody _(not even king of Neverland) can ever contain her. He may have been born again from the forest, but Wendy Moira Angela Darling was gifted with a new beginning when the sun warmed the earth, and it embittered inside her, a flame that cannot be doused.

Peter stares at her, mouth forming around words then casting them aside, helplessly searching for new ones, his eyes now raging with sharpest shadow. His breath streams from his nostrils in livid bursts, and Wendy is dimly reminded of the water dragons in the stories she used to read.

The comparison suits him; reptilian, skinny, with sharp teeth and ice-cold daggers surging forth with every breath.

"I think it'd be lovely," she whispers, "I bet he's nice and _thick _and _long-_"

Peter has a hand in her hair in an instant, dragging her to him and across the room. She growls, kicking at his shins but he ignores her and tosses her onto the bed. She lands on her hands and knees and is about to turn round on her back and crack her fist to his nose but he kneels on the bed behind her, dirty boots and all, and leans forward, covering her body with his own.

He sinks his teeth into her neck, and the pain bursts through her, and she cries out with it, gasping. It's _too hard, _too sharp, he's not holding back. Blood rolls down her shoulder, sticking in her hair and he doesn't bother licking it for her, simply reaches forward to grasp the collar of her dress and _rip _from shoulder to waist, pulling it off her roughly and tossing it to the side.

Wendy hisses and braces herself against the iron headboard, fingers curling round the cool metal. Her head hangs forward, dirty curls sweeping over one shoulder, as Peter tears her knickers off, leaving her naked except for her scuffed boots. He leans back, and she can hear him taking off his own clothes, the heavy _clunk_ of his belt falling to the floor, and then a long-fingered hand is cupping her breast and _squeezing _until she grunts and her eyes water.

"Stupid girl," he seethes, bringing his other hand up to dig his nails into her hip.

She whines, breathless, wet despite the throbbing at her neck and the pain in her breast (_you're a monster, _says a voice). She arches her back, bottom in the air, and sends him a challenging look over her shoulder.

His expression is like black ice, and it sends thrills through her veins, sparks to her fingertips. She looks back to the headboard, biting her lip in anticipation.

He pushes into her with one, sharp thrust and it's so deep it hurts for a moment, before he leans forward and rakes his blunt nails down her forearms and the sight of the red lines left by his fingers makes her groan. He leans back again, hands digging into her hips and drives into her, a punishing pace that makes the rusty bedframe creak with each thrust. He draws to the tip then sinks in to the hilt, again and again, reaching forward to grab a hank of curls and pull her head back.

Wendy feels his hips snapping against her, looks back to see the wiry muscles of his chest and arms rippling with each movement, mouth red and swollen with biting his lip, eyes darkened with lust and fury, and heat rises abruptly in her abdomen, coiling tightly in the pit of her gut.

She slides her tongue across her bottom lip, swallows thickly and lets loose a groan from the back of her throat, rolling her hips so that when he thrusts he hits the deepest part of her. The movement rips a shaky grunt from his mouth, but he cages it with gritted teeth and hisses "You. Are._ Mine,_" in between harsh, gruelling thrusts.

The laugh that tumbles into the space between them is husky, ragged. "_Never_." Wendy scorns, and he pulls her hair hard enough to make her think he's going to rip some of it out.

Pleasure, sweet and aching, begins to build up in the backs of her thighs and abdomen, roiling and spitting inside her. The muscles in her core begin to ripple, fissures blistering beneath her skin as he pounds into her soft heat, and she's _oh so close, _but Peter leans forward to dig his nails into her hands so she can't reach back to tip herself over the edge- he scrapes his teeth over her ear- his hips snap into hers- he comes, shuddering into her, his teeth clamping down on her shoulder.

He gives a long, rumbling groan that sounds as if it's from some _animal _and not a boy, and pulls out of her.

The warmth on her back is gone, the pleasure seeping from her muscles. She collapses, weakened, onto her side. Blood sticks her hair to her neck, sweat collecting in the creases of her knees and arms. Peter wipes himself off with what's left of her dress, pulls on his clothes and then sits next to her prone form. He pushes back her hair to look at her neck, smirks and digs his thumb into the marks.

Wendy hisses and spits, raking her ragged nails down his hand, but he only catches her wrist and pins it to the bed, using his other hand to grasp her chin. He wrenches her head towards him and leans down until they're nose-to-nose. She rubs her thighs together, whining, and self-hatred festers in the back of her head. She clamps her mouth shut.

"You're mine, Wendy-bird," he snarls against her lips, "don't forget that."

She scowls at him, painfully aware of how soaking wet her core is. She writhes against him, screeching in her throat, fingers desperately trying to reach the skin of his hands. He chuckles at her efforts and presses a bruising kiss against her unyielding lips, then releases her and strides out of her home before she can get her hands round his throat.

She's left lying on her bed, bruised and bloodied, to put her hand between her legs and finish herself, alone.

Despite the pain, despite the horrendous rage that fuels the shriek that tumbles forth from her mouth as she comes, Wendy looks to the door he left from and gives a dark, jagged smile.

Peter may have fucked her into something that resembles submission, but it's her who has the upper hand. She moulded him, made him angry enough to admit (through actions, but they are far more potent than words) that he wants her, _all to himself._

* * *

It's the next day, and Wendy's out looking for Tootles, who sprinted over to her and gabbled something about a new climbing game, then sprinted off again in his typical, over-excited fashion.

She knows better than to call for him. The curly-haired boy is selectively deaf when he's out having fun, so she just watches the swaying of the trees, and walks in the general direction of where he ran, knowing he will come back and ask her why she's being so slow.

Looking around the forest, Wendy thinks it must be sometime around autumn today. Yesterday, it was humid, sticky summer, but the dry crunch of the leaves underfoot and the sticky, dead-mush smell is telling of a milder season. She skims her fingers along the bark of the trees, content that Peter is probably off sulking somewhere.

Or, his equivalent to sulking, which is tormenting the pirates. He tried to corner her again that morning, and she smiled, sank to her knees and took him in her mouth before he could even get his hands on her. She let him sink his nails into her hair, pull it, tear at it, listening to his whining moans and commands of _harder, yes there that's good,_ endured his thrusts to the back of her throat, sucked him as close to completion as he could get without coming, then simply walked away.

He's been snappish all day, lashing out at the other boys and glaring at her poisonously.

Wendy laughs a little to herself, touching the bruise at her neck underneath the high collar of her dress.

She's so fixated on watching the trees for signs of Tootles that she doesn't hear Felix behind her until he's taken her by the throat and slammed her into the nearest trunk. She struggles blindly, hair in her eyes, and tosses it out the way. She tries to slam her elbows into his body, but he holds her at arm's length, his muscles locked and strong.

His twisted, angular face holds none of the boyish charm of Peter's- his nose is too sharp, his scar too ugly- thus the beast within him cannot be hidden. It is evident in every crease, every tooth, every scrape. It prowls in the corners of his perverse snarl, rotting and wild.

"_You_," he growls, "stupid little _girl_."

She tries to spit back at him, but he has her throat in a vice-like grip and his other hand has procured a dagger from his belt. Her eyes stick to it, and he grins.

Peter was wrong. Felix doesn't want to fuck her, he wants to _kill _her.

(same thing same thing same thing)

"It's _your _fault." He grunts. "Your. Fault. We're. Getting. _Older!_" He punctuates each word by shaking her by the throat, her skull cracking into the tree.

Pain blisters in her head, and she thrashes wildly, feet scrapping against the floor as she kicks out. His hand squeezes, squeezes, and she can't _breathe, _her vision is clouding there's no air and oh is _this _how she dies? She chokes, eyes streaming, and Felix loosens his grip.

Wendy gulps air down greedily, wheezing through her bruised airways, watching the knife.

He presses the blade to her cheek, only softly. "I saw you with him," he says furiously, "I saw you with your _dirty little mouth _on him!"

She tries to shake her head, but he begins to dig the blade in harder, and she ceases. "That's why we're getting older, little mouse."

_No, _Wendy tries to say, _no you're wrong we grew up before_-

"I have to kill you," he says, more to himself, "because Pan won't. He's thinking with… not his head." He tilts his own, the beginnings of a feral smile on his lips and that aching _hunger _blooming in his eyes.

"Please," she manages to gasp out.

He licks his lips, a slow, sliding of the tongue across his thin mouth. "You'd look good in red…" he murmurs, and steps closer.

_There, _Wendy thinks, and brings her knee up to stamp, hard on his shin.

Felix _screams _as a sickening crack echoes through the forest around them, pulling back the knife and drawing a shallow gash in her face. His face contorts in pain and fury, and his hand loosens for just a moment. Luckily, a moment is all she needs.

She brings her hands up, digging her nails into the soft flesh of his wrists and _pulls, _forcing him to let her go. He stumbles backwards as she leans against the tree, gasping for breath, and looks at her with fear blazing in his eyes.

Not of her, even though Wendy is fearsome enough, it's Peter that he's afraid of. "Please," Felix gasps, as she opens her mouth to speak, "please, _don't-_"

"Peter." She says coldly, her eyes brewing with a dark fury. "Peter, come here."

The trees around them creak and groan as a fierce wind whips through their branches, cold and unforgiving as the boy himself. Leaves are blown from the trees, stripping them bare, and a sudden darkness descends upon the forest. Shadows begin to writhe and manifest in the corners of her eyes, squirming and twisting like something _alive._

She's only ever seen him _this _angry a few times before, and it never bodes well for who the fury is directed at.

He steps out from thin air, simply melting into existence. He takes in the gash on her cheek, the knife in Felix's grip, her gasping, shuddering breaths with an expression cast in murderous rage. He roars, pulsing forward in one smooth leap, grasping Felix by the front of his shirt and slamming him into the ground.

"_Mine!_" he screams, spittle flying from his lips, "_she's mine!_"

"Pan-" Felix tries to plead with him, but is silenced by a fist crunching against his nose.

"_Nobody takes what's mine_." Peter growls, and spits in his face.

He slaps him, open-handed, again and again until his lip bursts and blood smears across his cheeks. Peter doesn't stop, screaming his rage, his possessiveness and keeps on hitting him, relentless.

The lines of his body are taut with fury, his face a contorted mask, barely recognisable as the smirking leader of the Lost Boys. His boyish demeanour is gone, replaced by purely adult wrath. Vehemence spews from every pore of his skin, and he vibrates with it, revels in it. The forest crackles with energy, shadows reaching out to touch Felix's skin, the trees looming over them ominously. There is ferocity everywhere she looks.

Wendy watches, eyes wide. She's trembling, she knows, and tears spark at the backs of her eyes but she blinks until they go away. She won't cry for _him._

Peter reaches for Felix's knife, pressing the sharp blade (still red with her blood) against his throat, and she wonders if she should stop him. He looks at her, pulls Felix's head back by his hair. She knows that he's waiting for her to say the word, the only courtesy he can allow her: the choice to stay his hand.

If she nods, and Felix is killed, the red will be on _her _hands. She imagines it, thick and warm, running through her fingers.

If she lets him live, he'll never give up. He'll always be skulking in the corners, waiting for her back to be turned, waiting for a day when Peter can't be called.

He deserves to die. He tried to kill her, he _dared _to hurt her. Wendy's skin crackles and trembles with anger; _Felix tried to murder her. _He thought he had the right to bring her harm, to raise a hand to her.

He called her _girl, _spat it out as if it was an insult.

Wendy wants to tell him that girls are the ones he should look out for. That girls hide daggers in their pretty mouths and poison in their skirts. That while Peter is the one who slits his throat, Wendy has the power to stop him. She wants to scream _hell hath no fury _and tell him _touch me again and we'll see how much you can bleed, _strike him and cut him open from his neck to his belly. She wants to open him up, let the mermaids feast on his corpse. A monster within her raises its head, roars and howls. Its hackles raise, and she spits bitter phlegm onto the ground.

She meets Peter's eyes, and nods.

Felix doesn't have time to scream. The knife carves across his throat and blood sprays in a grisly, red arc, soaking the bottom of her gown, splattering across her feet. His eyes are wide, unseeing, as life fades from their pale depths.

Bile rises in Wendy's throat, but she chokes it down, pressing the back of her palm to her mouth until the urge to vomit fades. She's gasping, leaning against the tree for support. Peter lets his body flop to the ground and stands, his eyes murky and cruel. He watches her, wiping his hands on his trousers.

The shock of it robs her of breath, but not of the faint sense of victory in her bones.

"Peter." She says, swallowing.

"I didn't want to do that." He replies dully, gesturing at Felix's dead body. "He was loyal."

She closes her eyes for a moment, passing a hand over her mouth. "He tried to kill me."

"Yes," he remarks, "that's why I had to kill him. Are you glad?"

"What?"

"Are you glad. That he's dead."

He watches her closely, with intense scrutiny, while she deliberates. He already knows the truth. He already _knows _that she feels sick but her veins are flooded with adrenaline and her fingers tingle with righteous fury. He can see in her eyes that the monster within, the wolf, has risen and its thirst could only be quenched with Felix's blood. What he wants to know, however, is whether she's denying it or embracing it. Wendy looks him dead in the eye, and remembers every game of chase they've ever played, wondering how they went from nothing but bruises and dancing around each other to _this._

"Yes." She says, and he steps forward, over the body, to touch her cheek.

"Needs bandaging." He says gruffly.

"I'll go to Tink."

His lips twist at the mention of the disgraced fairy.

She ignores it, and reaches up to claim his mouth in a painful, desperate kiss. He exhales against her lips, and draws her closer until she's pressed up against him so much she has to crane her neck to meet his movements. He tastes of bitter wrath, of bloodthirst, and it makes her head spin. Their lips slide together bruisingly, frantically, mouths open and gasping as if they're consuming each other. Wendy tangles her fingers in his hair, and he worries her bottom lip between his teeth. It's wrong, full of pain and sin and _death_, with a corpse next to them and blood on her gown, but she doesn't want to stop.

Peter takes her against the tree, trousers only just undone, her dress hiked up around her waist and knickers shoved to the side. He fucks her relentlessly, her back scraping against rough bark, her cries broken and hitching with each thrust, her legs wrapped round his hips to take him deeper. She draws him closer, sighing at the feel of his fingers digging into her buttocks, scratching her nails down his back and smiling against his returning groan. His mouth doesn't leave hers, swallowing every gasp, every whine, every grunt until neither of them know who made which noise, until their skin seems to simply _meld_.

She can feel his relief, the words that he can't say (_he nearly took you from _me) because he thinks they're _tender _when they're the opposite. They're ownership, something that can never be soft in the way he thinks it is. She can feel the cage in every thrust, every scrape of his teeth. She comes first, with him following just behind, and they slide down the tree into a boneless heap.

"Get rid of him," are the first words out of Wendy's mouth, and he pinches her thigh until she squeaks at the command, but does as he's told.

Peter throws Felix's body to the jungle cats, and watches as he is devoured. They take everything but his bones, which Peter throws into the ocean. He then watches the mermaids, a sick smile coursing through his features, as they pick them clean, sharp teeth gnawing at the white skeletal matter.

Wendy goes back to her house and waits for the tears to come, but they never do. She's left feeling nothing but satisfaction, and realises that feeling numb would probably be more appropriate.

(but a Lost Girl wouldn't care about that)

(neither would a Queen)

**AND WE'LL NEVER BE ROYALS (ROYALS)**

**Sorry, sorry. Hope you enjoyed, feel free to comment any criticisms/questions :)**


	4. Saints Can't Help Me Now

**Thank you for all the lovely support, you guys! I'm really, ****_really _****pleased that you like this… thing (thattottallystartedoffasaoneshotbutgotextendedbec auseihavenoselfcontrol). **

**Special thanks goes to: silenceisnotmyfriend (love your Darling Pan fics, man), mia, anberlin and calie15 for your beautiful commentary, helpful suggestions and also your hatred towards the new OUAT bumble of making Peter Pan a fucking ****_middle-aged man_****.**

**So much rage.**

**Anyhoo, moving on.**

_Saints Can't Help Me Now_

Wendy looks at the bloodstains on her dress, and decides it's time to face Tinkerbell again.

This is two mornings after she murdered Felix (not by her own hand, but she might as well have)- two nights after she nodded her consent to Peter, two nights after he soaked the forest floor with blood in her name.

The Lost Boys were asking after him. They hadn't, at first, seeing Peter's potent fury shake the forest to the root, and Wendy's carefully blank mask (they are not the smartest bunch, but even they know that an expressionless look from their Lost Girl is like calm before a storm, silence before a scream).

Tootles told her, in hushed undertones sitting at the foot of her bed, that they'd all assumed Felix had let her escape. That she'd somehow gotten hold of magic beans or commandeered Peter's shadow (the thought makes her laugh, but it is a hollow sound when the jest is linked to her escape), and Felix had let her slip through his fingers.

They hadn't, not even for a moment, suspected that he would try to kill her. _Innocents, _Wendy thinks, wondering if, had Felix chosen, he could have lured one of the Lost Boys to their deaths. Perhaps gullible Slightly, or naïve Tootles. They would never see it coming, poor things. The more she thinks on it, the more she realises that seeing the worst in everyone, seeing the shadow in their souls, is the best defence one can have. No matter the broken hearts it leaves behind.

(the picture of Felix leaning over their bodies, panting as he swirls patterns in their blood, is something that burns like acid at the back of her eyes)

The Lost Boys did not request a funeral. Wendy doubts they even thought of it; they are _boys, _after all, only children, and they don't understand anything about death other than play-acting it in a game. What they _do _understand, though, is pain. Pain, fear and loss are anthems below which a Lost Boy marches, instilled in them by Peter, the boy who wants to prolong his own youth but still manages to create a perverse mockery of it, forcing children to live in terror of his wrath.

Wendy trudges through the dense bush that has miraculously sprung into existence since three days ago, growling as she parts leaves and twigs away from her with already-scratched hands. The day is hot, but the kind of humid heat that leaves her hair frizzy and her palms damp with sweat. She can feel Peter's watchful gaze from the way the wind whistling through the trees sounds suspiciously like his dry laughter, from how the plants reach to her with something close to _intent._

She pretends not to notice, batting away the leaves of a fern that aims for her neck. The journey to Tink's house usually only takes half an hour, but the trek has been doubled now that all this _stupid _greenery has covered the sole clear path.

Peter has left her alone, for the most part. They haven't touched each other since the time against the tree. Something has changed with them, now (a corpse lies between them). The game has changed. He's giving her space, she realises, as much as an omnipresent, possessive teenage boy can. Again, Peter knows Wendy right down to the core, and has guessed that she needs time to think. To reconcile the Lost Girl with the beast, the bloodthirst with what's left of her conscience.

(one and the same, little mouse)

Wendy has never felt as scared as she did with Felix's hand around her throat. She touches the ring of bruises, a scalding reminder of his claim to her life, to her death. She remembers the starving look in his eyes, the muscles in his arms rippling as he'd cracked her head _again _and _again _into the hard bark of the tree.

The terror had risen up inside her, seeped into her skin like claws made from darkness, their inky black fingers drumming a tattoo upon her heart and ripping the breath from her lungs and sweat from her pores, dousing her in panic. _Is this how I die? _She'd wondered, and found that there were no strings of pride she could hold on to, only the word _please._ She was afraid, and the unfamiliarity of it was enough to send another pang of horror through her being.

But then Felix's hold had loosened, and Wendy's rage (lit within her waiting, wanting) had flared like the hackles on a wolf, like the lip curled back to reveal jagged teeth, and it had smothered her fear as easy as breathing.

She'd said _Peter _and it was a death sentence, a decree for his throat to be slit.

She closes her eyes and sees the spray of blood, red spurting through the air to soak into the bottom of her dress (hands too but only she can see) and spatter on her shoes, the gaping cut in Felix's throat- an awful mouth, stretching wide in a scream he can't utter- his dulling eyes, Peter's hand on her cheek.

(bark against her back a mouth on her lips _a crown on her head_)

Peter has killed before. She's certain of that. But Wendy had never seen someone die until Felix's lifeblood was scattered on the ground before her, a grisly token, and she can't help but think that she should be feeling an emotion more akin to remorse rather than satisfaction. She can't help but think she shouldn't be able to relate with Peter _at all_.

(the body made her ill but the result is thrilling)

Yet, even as she ignores the boy in question, she can feel the wolf inside howling to meet his, her blood humming in response to his call carried on the wind. And she knows, not deep down but all through her soul, that when he slit Felix's throat he saw something in her expression that mirrored his, and in that moment the game changed. The dance took on new steps. The cage that threatens to grow iron bars from bone and trap her here (as if she wasn't already) is shrinking as steadily as his hunger is increasing.

She might have seen blood on the ground and felt vomit rise in her throat, but the raw _power _that had sparked at her fingertips from the delight taken in conquering an enemy felt _perfect. _She had felt supreme, then, fucking Peter against the tree, feeling the blood on his hands, slick against her skin. She had felt _absolute- _yes, he had wielded the knife, but _Wendy _was the one who had taken Felix's right to live with a mere nod of her head.

It is an intoxicating, all-consuming thought, to know that she has made Peter kill someone.

(who needs blood underneath fingernails when you have a boy who'll slit throats for your honour?)

Wendy stops in her tracks, taking a long sip from her waterskin. Sweat is trickling down her back, making her dress cling to her like a second skin. Her hair has increased three times in volume since this morning, and has probably gathered approximately a thousand small sticks in that time. Her boots are rubbing uncomfortably on the areas that her socks leave uncovered. She'll probably have blisters by tomorrow, not that she's a stranger to those. Her feet are littered with scars and callouses from years of bare feet pounding against the forest floor. A few more marks won't make a difference, except to harden the armour of her skin as well as her heart.

The bush has grown in height now, as well as in thickness, and leafy ferns stretch over her head. The clear blue sky is visible in cerulean slats between each branch, the sun burning brightly overhead.

It _should _be a beautiful day, but all this irritating foliage is putting a dampener on the whole thing.

"Peter." Wendy snaps finally, after minutes of deliberation, putting her waterskin back in her belt.

The bush behind her rustles, a cool breeze stirring through its grasses, then goes still. Nothing happens.

She gives a growling sigh. "_Peter, _I know it's you. Just… come out."

The foliage _creaks, _shadows extended until they lap like the waters of the lagoon at her feet. He steps out from behind a particularly tall leafy green, arms crossed and spindly fingers resting on his sharp-pointed elbows. He smirks at her, eyes roving, and slides his tongue out to wet his lips. "Yes, Wendy-bird?"

She scowls at him, eyebrows knitted together. Despite this, she feels herself somewhere close to relaxed as they sink into familiar patterns; Peter acting the playful boy, Wendy embodying the cunning witch. "Cut the plants down."

"You don't like them?" he asks, tilting his head and flexing his hands.

Her eyes track the movement, and she fights the urge to chew on her lip as memories of Peter's fingers on her- _in _her- tracing every contour of her body surface to the forefront of her mind. "No." she spits, abruptly.

Peter _oohs _in mock-insult, mouth twisting into a derisive grin, and she knows he sees the desire in her gaze. "I made them for _you_, Darling." He murmurs, reaching out with one slender-boned hand to twist a dishevelled curl through his digits.

"I don't care," Wendy says, her tone lowering, "cut them down."

A shadow passes over his expression, only for a moment. It's a flicker, something cold shrieking in the black of his eyes, a madness behind his irises. It curls at his lip, sharpens his tongue and teeth, and then it's gone; hidden once again behind his boyish mask. Not for the first time, she notices how much _narrower _he looks- that youthful roundness of his face, the cherubic tilt of his head has all given way to the sacrilege of age, to whetted cheekbones and hungry eyes. "No," he says, tugging on the curl in his fingers, "_you _don't tell me what to do, little mouse."

She slaps his hand away, ignoring the pain of it when several strands are ripped from her scalp, and steps forward. She tilts her chin to meet his gaze, eyes burning and jaw clenched. "You killed Felix for me."

He scoffs. "That wasn't-"

"_You spilled his blood for me._" She grits out, and every bit of pain or fear Wendy has ever used to make steel for her soul is present in her voice, sliding underneath consonants. Her words crackle and spit in the air, coiled tight with strength and set alight.

The plants around them tremor, not in fear but in reaction to the pure authority that she radiates. Only Peter, who has most likely spent much of his existence being fairly unimpressed with many things, barely raises an eyebrow.

"You slit his throat on the forest floor," she begins again, her voice steady, "but only when _I_ gave you permission."

His hand is around her throat in seconds, his angry face inches from hers, sinewy muscles in his arm bunched tight. She lets out a startled, choking gasp but keeps her eyes locked on his and _refuses _to step back. He squeezes, and she knows that he is thinking about giving her a brand new ring of bruises around her neck, to make it his, but she doesn't care. He can leave as many marks as he wants on her skin; they will heal, they will be returned to him. Her body is there for everyone to see but her heart and her head shall remain unscathed, her own private domains. Peter cannot harm her mind; she has spent _years _constructing an impenetrable fortress, and Felix's death has only allowed the wolves in her heart to skulk on its battlements.

She clutches at his hand, fingernails scrabbling for purchase. "His blood is in the soil of Neverland," she rasps, "and I was the one who commanded it."

"What do I care?" Peter snarls, the madness flickering in his eyes again, icebergs at sunset.

She licks her lips, and gives a hoarse chuckle that makes him pinch the skin of her hip, hard. "You know you can't make a blood sacrifice _here_ without it meaning something, Peter."

Her words are true enough, even though they are more a play to confuse him and knock him down a few notches, rather than warn him. She wants to make him question himself, realise what he's done, realise the _power _this has given her. Wendy has spent all but twenty-three years of her long life exploring every inch of Neverland, and if she has learned anything it is that it is _alive,_ and not to be trusted with a matter so serious as a tribute, inadvertent or not. The moment she nodded her consent, and the drops of Felix's lifeblood rained down upon its soil, the island began to owe her something.

What, exactly, she does not know.

He considers her, fuming. "I'll make it mean nothing."

"Too late for that." She rasps, reaching out with one hand to dig her nails into the skin of his exposed collarbone. It's a motion that never fails to make him desire her like burning, like flames are licking at his skin. Peter is cold, cold as ice, but Wendy's touch is fire and the clashing of the two is something deliciously close to pure chaos.

He hisses, like always, and makes to slide his hands from around her throat to the back of her head, so he can gain better access to her mouth, but as soon as his grip loosens she ducks under it.

He grabs for her, but she twists effortlessly out of the way, the grace of nine decades coursing through her limbs. "Peter," she sighs, "I have things to do."

This stops him in his tracks. He stares at her, chest heaving, eyes wild as a storm rages underneath his skin and cold fury freezes the blood in his veins. Any warmth taken from the sun dissipates as the tell-tale shadows surge upwards until they are almost three times her own height, pitch black walls stretching past the dense foliage. Wendy feels a chill descend upon her skin, percolating to her bones, and she fights a hysterical laugh that is bubbling to the bottom of her throat.

"_What_?" Peter seethes, his voice deadly-quiet, eyes flinty with the promise of pain.

She knows his question is for dramatic effect rather than the chance to earn his forgiveness. It's too late, anyhow- there's nothing she can say to calm him. She can never quell his rage, only add to it. She is meant to be the fire that burns him, and he the ice that tries to douse her flame.

(Wendy has long since given up pretending they were not born to play this game)

"I _said_," she begins, her tone sugary-sweet, "that I have things to do. And it would be lovely if you could make your little garden… _disappear_."

The grinding of his teeth is practically audible, and she tries not to eye up the shadowy walls that imprison them, together.

He stalks forward suddenly, and she attempts to move past him but he already has his fingers hooked in the fabric of her dress. She is drawn (not stumbling _never _stumbling) to his chest, where he holds her pressed up against him, hip-to-hip. He slides a hand up from the base of her back and tangles his fingers in her hair, using the mane of curls to yank until she meets his gaze.

He stares down at her, the whirling, molten coal-black of his eyes sparking with rage, nostrils flared as he breathes harshly through them. He doesn't speak, doesn't demand that he _owns _her, doesn't kiss her till she goes weak at the knees. This is an entirely different sort of anger that cannot be forgotten, erased by kisses and burned away in the ruin left by their game. This is pure, unadulterated fury, frosty and dark. Wendy wonders if, perhaps, she has gone too far this time. Yet, even as she struggles to break his hold, arousal coils at the pit of her gut and sets her heartbeat racing. Even as she feels the bars of her cage clamping shut as tightly as he grinds his teeth, there is a ferocious snarl threatening to tumble loose from her lips, tinged with pleasure.

She strains to kiss him, to feed the kindling that has settled in her bones, but the hold on her hair is tight and she cannot quite reach his mouth. Instead, she gives a sharp thrust of her hips, trying to relieve some of the pressure that is building in her abdomen. He snarls instead of moaning, pulls her head back until tears are in her eyes and does not touch his teeth to her throat, but still grinds shamelessly into her- letting her feel the heavy weight of his cock, hard and hot against her thigh.

Wendy gives a shaky whine, weak-sounding and fragile. No, no- she can't give in to that. _She _is the one in control, _she _is the one manipulating the carnal desires of Peter Pan. It's an act, a dance, a _game._ A simple swivelling of her hips, a faked moan, a lusty sigh- this is all it takes to make him unravel. This is all it takes to watch him tremble apart beneath her fingers, the _ultimate_ power; better than twisting the forest to her whims, better than watching blood splatter on the dirt ground at her command.

She snarls, lets the sound surge through the air between them to burn up the remnants of her tremulous whimpers, and reaches down to rub her hand against him. Peter hisses through his teeth, letting his forehead fall against hers, and it hits her that he might have _missed _this- it's evident in the way that his muscles relax for a moment, in the way that his cock twitches beneath her fingers at the lightest touch- and she lets a sneer curl at her lips.

"Three days is a _long _time, is it?" she asks, leaning up to slide her tongue against his mouth.

His eyes are screwed shut, and he doesn't answer- only parts his lips willingly and loosens his hand. She kisses him slowly, with the kind of intensity that denotes power and swallows any attempt at revolt.

As always, though, Peter doesn't give up without a fight. He slants his mouth over hers, moving his hands to cradle her head with his thumbs pressing, bruisingly, into her cheekbones, his lips slick and warm. He kisses as if he's starving, as if it was food he was denied for three days rather than her body, fingernails scrabbling against her scalp and teeth clashing against hers. He doesn't relent, doesn't lean back to press his lips against her jaw, or pause to whisper her name as if it's his salvation, only crushes her against him until she's sure her skin is going to split apart and _burst._

He bites her tongue, hard, and she takes her hand from his cock to scratch her ragged fingernails down his cheek. Blood slips over her palms and he makes a noise in the back of his throat that's equal parts anger and arousal; the wolves in them both howl with the intent to shatter worlds.

(her crown weighs heavy, but her blood _sings_ and the forest takes up its chant)

Wendy unbuttons his shirt with red-slicked fingers, running her hands over the leanness of his chest, scratching her nails over his nipples and swallowing his replying hiss. She pushes the piece of dark-green cloth over his shoulders and he shrugs it off, letting it fall to the ground.

She pulls away from him abruptly, slapping away his hands when he reaches out to grab her again, and undoes the belt that holds her waterskin. He stills, watching her with hungry eyes as she reaches up to slowly peel the high-necked dress from her body, and doesn't notice the way _she _watches _him, _equally lustful. He's slim, with a narrow waist and spindly fingers, but wiry muscle ropes his arms and chest, and she remembers the way they ripple under her hands when she fucks him, meeting her thrust for thrust. She remembers how it feels to have his chest pressed against her back, bark beneath her fingers, and pleasure so acute she's _certain _that this time- _this time_- it'll kill her.

The wall of shadows drops in tandem with her dress, and Peter's hand is slipping past the seam of her knickers before she knows what's happening, feeling the dampness of her curls and flicking his thumb over her clit. She cries out (missed this, missed _him_), and grips his biceps as his pupils, hot and needing, dilate in response.

He licks his lips, uses the rough fingers of his other hand to cup her breast. He leans forward, thumb still circling her swollen clit, juices leaking onto his wrist, and suckles on her nipple. She arches her back, pressing her breast further into his mouth, hands scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders as she grinds down against his palm. A finger enters her, and she hums at the delicious sparks the motion sends up her spine before marking the skin of his neck with her teeth. He moves his mouth from her breast, tracing kisses up to her jaw, and pushes his finger deep inside her. She feels the cool air reacting to the saliva on her chest, his skin (warm, so _warm _despite the ice in his soul) under her hands, his hummingbird pulse under her lips.

She feels as if hot flowers are blistering beneath her skin, as if there's _something _tangible just beyond reach and if he would just _fuck her_-

"Long time, three days." He rasps, lips on her ear, and presses his thumb down hard enough to make her convulse.

Wendy bites him, tasting blood in her mouth for the second time that day, and presses herself against his chest further, her nipples hardening almost to the point of pain. He pushes another finger into her to join the first, pumping in a steady pace that makes the all-too familiar heat unfurl beneath her skin, butterflies alighting in her stomach.

_No, _she thinks, _mine._

She growls, scratching her nails down his back, down to the base where she knows he likes best, and tilts her chin to nip at his earlobe.

Peter gives a rumbling groan, deep at the bottom of his throat, and the smooth strokes of his fingers stutters. She whispers, "Take off your trousers," and of course he doesn't, angered by the commanding tone in her voice, so she does it for him (she barely has to look, now, doesn't even fumble), urging him to step out of the confines of his pants and pushing his hands away in the process.

She drops to her knees, trailing her fingers down his abdomen, the sharp cut of his hips (still mottled purple and blue from her teeth), leaning forward to ghost her breath across the head of his glistening cock. She looks up at him from under thick lashes, letting her tongue slide out to wet her reddened lips. She tilts her head, meeting his gaze as she softly kisses the head, stifling the cruel laugh that is born in her throat as he moans.

Her fingers curl around the base, pumping slowly, twisting her grip slightly in the way she has learnt he cannot withstand, and takes his cock into her mouth. His eyes flutter closed as she lets her jaw go slack, but then she swallows him to the hilt, and they snap open again to lock on to hers. He snaps his hips, thrusting to the back of her throat, smirking when she jerks a little.

(carve it off with a knife show him _who you are_)

Wendy knows _exactly _how to pull Peter's strings. She knows his body, his anger, better than her favourite book- there is no metaphor, no line of text, no page that she has left unscrutinised, there is no trick or look or innuendo that she does not utilise. She knows him just as well as he knows her; the only difference, the only unequal ground, is that he is not a girl.

Peter Pan has never been subjected to the cruelty of boys, to the cruelty of _himself. _He has never been forced to retreat inside his own head, to take himself apart and build himself again, using pain and fear and bitter weeping as a foundation. She's not even sure he has ever _had _a heart, so she knows that he has never had to cast it away in favour of steel.

Peter has his Lost Boys, his Neverland, his lust for youth. He has everything to lose. Wendy, however, has nothing but a burning desire to set the beast inside running free, and everything to gain. She is a deadly combination; a woman scorned, with bloody feet and blackened soul.

She will win this game.

It is with this thought that Wendy licks the vein on the underside of Peter's cock, power humming through her veins as she tastes him at the back of her throat. Looking up at his dazed expression, she knows the picture she must paint; cheeks flushed, lips stretched around him, wild hair falling to brush against her breasts. His breathing quickens in tempo, the steady rocking of his hips faltering. She feels his hand, tangled in her curls, and this gesture of control makes rage flare up in her gut, yet she lets him pretend he has even a modicum of power here. If only for a moment.

She arches her back, and slowly, deliberately, reaches down to cup her breast. She moans around his cock as she traces her thumb over the pink nipple, and he gives a choked gasp, hungry eyes following the movement in rapture. All it takes is her other hand to slip even further downwards to rub against her clit, the rasp of her tongue against him, and he comes, shuddering and thrusting erratically, throwing his head back to cry out. The bitter liquid hits the back of her throat, and though she fights it she cannot help but gag, but she swallows every last drop.

She suckles at him until he stops, letting his cock slide from her lips with a wet _pop, _and stands as he slowly slumps to the ground. Her legs are slightly shaky, her core still achingly wet, but she pushes past the primal wants (needs) of her body and _refuses _to think about how much she wants him inside her, wants his skeletal fingers on her breasts and his knife-kisses on her neck. Instead, she gets to her feet, reaching for her dress and belt.

He is lying, flat on his back, panting heavily. His cock lies, spent, between his legs, and his eyes are closed. His expression is dazed, content, and something thrills within her veins at the knowledge that _she _can quiet Peter Pan with her mouth, and nothing more.

It sounds like a riddle; _what can quell the rage of the boy king using only lips and teeth and tongue, but no words?_

She almost laughs, but she feels that this would cheapen the occasion- turn her into a cackling madwoman and not a calculated, efficient Lost Girl. She has her moments, of course, but this is not one of them.

Wendy stands over him, and smirks. He can't quite muster a glare in his afterglow, but the intent is there. She gathers her clothes against her chest, ignoring the flare of heat that takes up residence in her abdomen when Peter curls his fingers around her ankle in a bid for her to stay. "Let's play chase." She hisses, and before he can answer she is off running through the tall greenery, dodging and twisting and _laughing._

(mad bad never sad)

As expected, the plants jump to attention, reaching for her bare skin and sliding across the ground, searching for a falter in her step but _there is none, _because she is wild and Neverland owes her a blood sacrifice.

She shrieks and whoops in response to his furious screaming of her name, baring the skin of her back to thorned foliage, laughing as it draws red beads across white cream, the beast in her breast slipping to the surface. Her teeth are bared as her soul, her hair blown back by the wind that rips through green leaves- but it doesn't push her back, because even Peter's rage is not as powerful as she- and the wolf scrambles up her throat, shredding forth from her lips and erupting into a howl that splinters through the Neverland air.

"_WENDY!_" Peter roars, and there is a beast in his voice, too, and she grins as he starts to give chase.

(a game a game a _game_)

Vines stretch out to touch her and she twists away from them, claws unsheathed and raking across bark until sap pours in thick rivulets down rough skin. The plants quake in response, angry and vengeful as their master, and Wendy can feel _him _just behind her. His fingers whisper across the base of her spine, and she surges forward, willing herself to run faster.

In the back of her head, she remembers that she's wearing nothing but her boots and knickers, and hopes to _God _(not Peter never Peter) that Hook hasn't chosen today to lead one of his ill-advised expeditions of the island.

Although, perhaps the look on his handsome face when he realises that she's not a- what did he call her?- a _girlie, _anymore, would be worth it.

Wendy darts to the left, down the path that leads to Tink's treehouse, just as she feels _his _breath, hot on her neck. He snarls in frustration, shadows twisting and convulsing in the corners of her eyes. She tears, limbs pumping and blood surging, towards the rope ladder.

He has already figured out the rules; she need not tell him. If she gets inside Tink's door, he cannot enter. She wins.

Her fingers are mere _inches _from the first step when his fingers bite into her hips. Her chimes of laughter turn into furious shrieks as he drags her away from the safety of her friend's home, back into the forest. She fights him, limbs thrashing and back arching and _none _of the unerring grace that fills her when she evades the plants; it's all the wolf now, the wolf that starves rather than the wolf that hunts, and there is too much wilderness in her charred heart for elegance. Not now.

Peter fucks Wendy with her back on the ground, her right leg hooked over his elbow so he can push _deeper_, knickers simply shoved to the side, her cries echoing through the forest.

(they are swallowed by the trees)

His face is inches from hers, contorted with rage and lust and _ownership, _his thrusts so forceful that her whole body moves with them. He fucks her without reprieve, hips cracking into hers, his whole body pressed against her skin and it feels as if he's going to split her in two, or meld into her, or make her _explode _and she rolls her hips to meet his thrusts, gasping _Peter Peter Peter _into his waiting mouth.

The forest thrashes around them as he reaches down to palm her breast, drawing out of her to the tip then pushing back in to the hilt. Sweat coats them both, sticky and crusted with salt, their bodies sliding together- skin meets, parts- lips crash-

He reaches down to stroke her clit, and then she's shaking apart with a wordless cry, skies unfolding beneath her skin, white light bursting behind her eyelids. She keens, back arched and muscles spasming enough so that he follows immediately, hips bucking helpless against hers as he empties himself into her. He collapses, and his lips stay on hers, murmuring _Wendy-bird, my Wendy-bird_ into her open mouth like it is deliverance.

They stay like this for minutes afterwards, her legs around his waist now that his arms cannot hold her, her fingers tangled in his hair, he whispering words of ownership against her tongue.

(a wolf's thirst can never be quenched and its freedom shall never be taken)

When he kisses her again upon taking his leave, when she can taste the triumph (and something else, something fragile and altogether more powerful, something she can _use_) on his teeth, she feels the bars of her cage begin to creak shut, and _knows_ she needs to get out.

The realisation only makes the bars grow faster.

* * *

Tinkerbelle's house is neat and tidy, dark wooden floors kept gleaming and windows devoid of dirt. There are only three rooms: her tiny bedroom, complete with a small green cot and plush armchair, the tea room, and the reading room. Wendy has visited this place almost every day since she stumbled upon it in her third year of confinement, and sometimes she thinks it is the fairy's friendship that kept her from going mad.

(before she embraced it)

"You're alive," Tink breathes, darting up from her place in the rickety old chair by her window to pull Wendy into a warm embrace.

After almost an hour of sitting on the forest ground, wide-eyed with the realisation that Peter's burning desire to _own _her was both her cage and her saving grace, Wendy shook the pleasure from her bones and resolutely started off to her friend's home.

She left any sympathy or guilt behind.

"Excuse me?" she asks, incredulously, into the fluffy mass of blonde curls that has invaded her vision.

"I thought- when I heard the Pan-" Tinkerbelle hesitates, pulling back to lead Wendy over to where she has just boiled a fresh pot of tea.

"You thought he was going to kill me?"

"It's just- you didn't come and see me for almost _three days._ I thought the worst."

Wendy looks at her friend's tear-stained cheeks, the dirt on her dress, and believes her. "But," she adds, frowning, "that's hardly _rare._"

Tink shoots her an apologetic look. "Sorry, pet, but I wouldn't put it past him."

She sighs, moving past her to the tea room. "Nor would I," Wendy murmurs, thumping down on the lumpy couch next to the wooden tea table, yet the thought that Peter should kill her still makes her throat tighten.

With exactly what emotion, she's not sure.

The blonde fairy follows her, taking a blanket from a cabinet and tossing it on her lap. "It's cold, lots of wind today," she explains innocently, and Wendy's cheeks flush. "I'm glad you're alive." Tink says quietly, reaching over the table to pat her hand.

"I'm glad too, I would have missed your tea."

The feeble attempt at a joke makes Tink smile, and she fetches a chipped cup from her collection, setting it in front of Wendy. "What _was _he so miffed about, anyway?"

"Felix tried to kill me." She replies quietly, tilting her head to look at the ceiling.

Her friend stops her tinkering, nimble fingers presumably stilling in shock. "Pan killed Felix, didn't he?"

Wendy nods. "Yes. But, Tink," she whispers, and she cannot help but allow a small glimmer of pride edge into her voice, "he asked me first."

"That- that's a-"

"A blood sacrifice, I know." She turns her head to look at the fairy, almost smiling at the fear on her face.

"Pet," Tinkerbelle says, hushed, "you need to get out of here. Before this," a small hand waves in the air as she searches for the word, "_game _that you're playing ends up with you dead."

Wendy wants to tell her _it can't, it won't, Neverland owes me blood and it will be _his _and I will go free- _but she knows that it will sound insane. She is operating these thoughts only on superstition, and Tink is far too level-headed to believe that this island would be willing to go against _Peter Pan, _its creator, its king, simply because she gave blood to its soil.

Yet, she feels in her bones that her beliefs are true. She needs someone mad, someone with nothing to lose, someone who would help her destroy Peter without a thought to the consequences.

Her wolf howls, and the forest howls back.

**I'm sorry I haven't updated recently! I went on holiday with my family and only got back Sunday night. Read and review, love you all!**


	5. The Ropes Have Been Unbound

**Wow guys, thank you so much for all the wonderful support! I couldn't have asked for better or kinder reviews. I'm ****_so sorry _****for the wait- I'm a lazy ass. That is all. **

**Also, you should probably check out ****_If I Had a Heart _****by Fever Ray, I get a lot of Darling Pan feels when I listen to it. Also it's a fucking great song.**

**And um, if any of you are interested I am actually on tumblr: .com**

**So. Yeah.**

_The Ropes Have Been Unbound_

Wendy has often wondered what it would be like to be a pirate. To sail the seven seas, riding upon the crest of a wave with the wind in her hair and a blade in her hand, answering to none but the ocean and the call for treasure. As a child, she had felt the _tug_ of gold herself, the one depicted in story books as only residing in the hearts of men. It was a greedy, all-encompassing desire; something that made her fingers itch at the sight of expensive jewellery sitting on old women's fat necks, or golden rings encrusted with emeralds on their fingers.

It was a lust she was sure to be inherent in _all _human hearts, not simply those of the male gender. A thirst for pretty things, things that leant power and beauty and prestige- she thinks of how it would feel to let pirate doubloons slip through her fingers and into a chest dripping in gold, to be adorned with exotic pearls and rubies… It is a thought that makes her throat dry and her heart quicken in longing.

Sometimes, she allows herself to daydream about defeating Captain Hook and taking his crew, leading under the name of _Red-Handed Jill_, a name that doesn't _need _to be threatening because the girl who uses it can instil fear into the hearts of others with nothing but the echo of her boot heels and the scrape of metal against scabbard.

It would be lovely, she thinks, to make others tremble to the quick upon hearing her name. She would loot entire continents, kill thousands, and leave survivors only so they could spread the terror.

_A girl, _some would whisper, _a girl who commands a ship that sails through words, a ghost on water. _

She imagines how seasoned sea-dogs would scoff. _A girl? _They would snort. _You're barking. _

They would laugh, of course, until they heard of how she _fights like a wolf sent from the underworld, your blood in her eyes and gold on her mind – she has the devil at her back, that one – Red-Handed Jill has a beast in her ribs and demon's claws forged to her sword – _

But, it is only a dream. A fantasy. What she needs now is Hook's assistance, not his defeat, and her one advantage is that he knows not what she is capable of. The handsome pirate is the only person she can think of to help her in this quest; the Lost Boys are too loyal to Peter, Tinkerbelle too logical, and the mermaids are not brave enough to face the consequences, even if betrayal does mean their freedom.

So, she needs Hook. He's mad, fantastically so, and ruthless, and hates the king of Neverland with all the force of a tidal wave- he would destroy everything just to get at Peter. All she needs to do is slip off the island and on to the pirate ship without _him _noticing, and make a proposition.

It's going to be difficult, however, when the boy can barely keep his hands off her for more than a few seconds, let alone allow her to run away from him. He's curled around her now, a hand possessively cupping her breast and breath ruffling her hair, sleeping for the fourth consecutive night in _her _bed. It's not a comfortable fit: his legs are too long, her bed too narrow, her limbs cramping as she struggles not to fall off the edge, but she knows that if she so much as _shifts, _he'll wake up and pull her even closer.

It's suffocating, here in his arms, with the tantalising whisper of freedom being now, suddenly within reach. Perhaps it's not completely inevitable, but it is _there, _a tangible mass that had not been there before. She stares, wide-eyed in the darkness, and entertains the thought that she can feel her liberation somewhere beyond her nose, as if it's twisting in the shadows. She feels as if her entire being, save her skin (held by Peter's claws), is shunting forward in pursuit. As if her eyes, her organs, her soul is trying to burst free from the cage of her hair and teeth.

Wendy shivers as the sweat on her legs and back cools in the frigid night air, the warmth leeched from Peter's hands and chest only a small reprieve. Her blanket, along with their clothes, was cast upon the floor in his hurry to push her back on to the bed. She is loath to admit this, but muffling her moans in his skin with the knowledge that the other Lost Boys are mere minutes away, sleeping, is the most fun she's had in _years._ She'd barely been able to keep quiet this time, with Peter pinning her to the bed and kissing _every inch _of her body, from her toes to the backs of her knees to the tips of her ears, waiting until she was almost sobbing with need to finally (_finally_) slide himself inside her with a shaky grunt.

He'd pressed his face into her neck, her ankles locked at the base of his spine, and fucked her with long, deep, slow thrusts. _Wendy-bird, _he'd moaned against her skin, _Darling, little mouse. _

She'd gouged her nails down the lines of his back in retaliation, meeting him move for move.

Cornering her after supper, pushing her up against the wall and reaching under her dress, is no new occurrence, but staying after he's been sated is something she's having trouble wrapping her head around; a new step in the game.

Her days are dedicated to running with the Lost Boys, to scaling Neverland's highest rocks and tallest trees, but her nights are hers, and hers alone. The only moments she can allow memories of Bae, of her brothers, her _parents _to resurface. The only moments Wendy can be sure she is alone, the only moments she knows nobody can hear her weep.

(she tries, oh she _tries, _but not a tear for weeks)

Or, they were. Until this new dance began, and Peter decided to try and drain every last drop of _her, _sap the freedom from her bones and take everything for himself. He has taken her days, her nights, and everything in between.

He wants Wendy in his arms the way a snake wants a mouse in its jaws, spine crushed and crimson blood defiling the pure white fur. He wants to _own _her, the very marrow of her thoughts, every beat of her heart, every sweet memory. He will try to take it all, to cut her open and take out her innards, map them out on the dirt floor until the soil swallows them and spits them out- they will be different, they will be _his, _born not from sunrise but from the filthy core of the island, of _Peter Pan_- and then.

And then.

She will not be Wendy Darling, the Lost Girl of Neverland. She will be Wendy-bird, little mouse, Peter's _Darling_ _Dearest_. A puppet to be toyed with, his own personal doll. The very thought of it makes her throat seize in terror, her skin prickle and sweat.

It is already beginning.

But. Wendy is not a mouse, and if the foul boy king of Neverland ever tries to sink his razor-teeth into her flesh, he will find not sweet blood of an innocent, but the bitter death that lurks beneath the skin of wolves. He will come to know what happens to boys who try to rip independence from the belly of the beast. He will die screaming.

He will die, and hers will be the hand that slays him. It's the only way she will ever go free.

(she wonders why she tastes such horror on her tongue)

* * *

"You're going to try to kill him?" Tink asks.

They're sitting in her little house, on the green sofa, while Wendy outlines the details of her plan. The blonde woman shifts uncomfortably in her seat, fingers reaching to scratch at the ghost of where her wings once sat, before faltering. Her breath hitches, and her hands flutter back down past her shoulder. They wrap around her mug, likely seeking the good warmth of hot tea that bakes through to her skin. She curls her toes, crosses her tanned legs.

"Yes." Wendy says, resolute. She doesn't miss the way Tinkerbelle flinches – before she was banished, the fairy and the boy king of Neverland were friends, of sorts. Not long enough for him to reveal his true colours at anything other than her betrayal, but Wendy knows the other woman must feel conflicted at the prospect of his death. She tucks her curls primly behind her ears, the anchor of lady-like behaviour something of a comfort, nowadays.

(Queens are regal creatures, no matter the wilderness they control)

She has no qualms discussing Peter's downfall in the safety of Tink's home. She's known for a while now that he can't hear or sense anything that occurs within these four walls, much to his frustration. He can feel every footfall in Neverland, every breath one of his subjects takes, but this house is not _of _Neverland. Its wood was taken from another realm, its cupboards filled with exotic teas and cakes from Hook's travels, thus is closed off to Peter Pan.

Wendy feels a dizzying sort of glee when she thinks of this, when she remembers that his power does not extend to every corner. It is the same glee that fills her when she takes comfort in the private thoughts in her own head, when she listens to the wolf howling in her breast and knows he _won't see it coming._

"You _can't_," Tinkerbelle whispers, her voice fragile as gossamer.

"I can." Wendy insists, crossing her ankles. "And I will."

"You don't understand – you'll be _killed_ –"

"Tink, I –"

"_Wendy._" Her friend interrupts. "Wendy, pet, you can't do it."

She grits her teeth, muscles coiling and tensing. Her hackles raise. "Don't think I'm getting _weak_," she spits, "I can put a knife in his back, easy as breathing." This is both a truth and a lie. The two opposing forces twist round each other, sliding between her teeth, black and white mixing to become grey.

Tink watches her, apprehensively.

Wendy takes a measured sip of her tea. The sharp taste of it helps her steady herself, the warmth humming through her pleasantly. As she does so, her reflection in the liquid becomes warped; she can see the dark of her eyes, but everything else is distorted by ripples. The fairy is suspicious, and rightly so. Collaborating in a mutinous plot against Peter will be no easy feat, but neither of them has anything to lose. Nor does Hook, for that matter. She hasn't tasted freedom _this _potent in just under a century, and she's not about to give it up for the sake of caution.

"If he finds out, you're dead. You know that, pet, don't you?" Tinkerbelle tells her carefully.

"I'd rather die than be trapped _here _for eternity." As she says this, Wendy feels the weight of all her years, all the non-existent creaks and wrinkles, and locks her spine straight anyway. It wouldn't do to crack under the pressure, not now.

"And what about me, then? I'm rather keen on living." The blonde woman retorts testily, setting her mug of tea firmly down on the wooden table next to them.

"You've only a small part to play," she coaxes, "just get me on the ship. That's all."

"And then what? How are you going to get Hook to play along, pet?" Tink eyes her sceptically, crossing her legs. She folds her hands in her lap, looks down past the smooth expanse of thigh and calf at her feet, encased in soft green shoes.

"I'll make him an offer he can't refuse."

"And what's that?"

"Pan's head on a spike, and all the magic beans he could ever want." Wendy's voice is cold, nonchalant as she speaks of murder, and the emotion she sees glimmering in Tinkerbelle's eyes is nothing short of _fear_.

Fear at her heartlessness, fear at the wild thing she has become.

"Alright." She whispers, gazing at her hands.

Instead of feeling guilty at the realisation she has sparked something akin to terror in her one true friend's soul, Wendy senses only satisfaction at her own authority. She does not wonder when she became so cold; she already knows – the moment she decided to exchange tears for strength she traded in her own compassion, and this sacrifice only spurs her on her quest for freedom.

(perhaps it's revenge)

* * *

Wendy is alone in the forest. She's sure of that, of course. Not only because the ferns around her are still, but because Peter has led the Lost Boys off on a treasure hunt, and will most likely be gone the whole day.

He wanted her to come, of course, but she shook her head no and said, _I'm seeing Tink, today._

_You saw her only a day ago,_ he replied petulantly, reaching up to toy with one of the buttons on her dress.

She'd sighed, pushed his hand away. _I'll go treasure-hunting another day._

This is a lie. With any luck, she'll be on the _Jolly Roger _in less than an hour, discussing her plans with the infamous pirate captain himself.

The map, supposedly stolen by the boy king from Hook, is one of Tinkerbelle's creations. A genius plan, Wendy must admit. All the pirates had to do was speak loudly and carelessly of the _sacred treasure _that resided in one of the small coves just off Neverland, waving the yellowed map around like a flag. Sooner or later, Peter was bound to hear word of it, either from the lips of a mermaid or one of the Lost Boys who liked to clamber the rocks near where the pirates dropped anchor. Naturally, as soon as he _did _receive word, he wanted to take the treasure from Hook more than anything in the world.

More than her, even.

She pushes the thought away. It's _good _he wants the treasure; it's the key to her escape.

She is facing a thicket of thorns, blocking her path to where the pirates often reside. Upon first stumbling across it, panic had frozen in her veins. She'd thought that Peter had somehow anticipated this, before realising that this was simply another display of ownership, another bar in her cage.

The sight makes her stomach clench with fury, the wolf skulking in her spine bare its teeth. If she had doubts before about betraying Neverland's ruler, they have been eradicated – burned in the wake of her fire.

She almost laughs. Does he think that _this _can contain her? Does he presume that this is not an obstacle she can overcome? How _dare _he even _entertain _the thought that he could ever keep her from what she wants – a thornbush? It is insulting.

_I am a _Lost Girl, she thinks, her chin held high. _It takes more than a few plants to cage me._

(wolves cannot be contained and queens are not born to be broken)

She slides her tongue out across her bottom lip, taking a step forward. She draws a dagger – pressed into her hands _decades _ago by Peter, and it is satisfying to know it is a tool of her defiance – and presses it to her palm. One quick swipe, and crimson blood beads across the creases of her hand. She closes it, lets the red liquid drip down the cream of her wrist, then relaxes her fingers and watches as it falls to the soil at her feet.

Seven perfect, glistening droplets splatter to the dirt. She thinks of the tale of Snow White, blood on snow, and decides that red mixed with grubby brown is much more fitting for her; Wendy is no longer purity wearing a white dress – no, she is the wolf in disguise, the poison behind cherry lips, the knives in sweet words. The snarling, spitting girl with charred steel for a heart.

She watches, her left hand poised in the air and blood running down her arm, as the sacrifice slowly seeps into Neverland's dirt. The soil shifts, and the wind starts to pick up, whipping through the trees and enough to make her eyes sting, but Wendy wills it to stop and it _does._

The forest is still. She looks to the budding flowers on her left. A mere wave of her hand ripens them to full bloom, peeling open in fast motion.

She doesn't dare move for a moment, her heart pounding in her chest not from fear (never, _never_)but from exhilaration. Liquid fire zips through her, and she sheaths her knife. Raises her arms to face the thorns, palms-up. Flexes her fingers.

"Move." She tells them, cloaking her voice in that of a Queen's.

(this is not the time for Lost Girls)

Her tone is enough to pierce the thorns itself, regal authority sharpening every syllable, every consonant, until her spine straightens of its own accord and her chin held high.

There is a pause.

Then, the thorns seem to shrink in on themselves, their roots pulling them back to the ground with a grotesque noise that sounds remarkably like fabric ripping, like meat from the bone, and they _shriek _in protest – their spindly fingers reach out to her, clawing at the air – Wendy swipes _back, _her blood spatters – the thorny mass hisses, warps to look like a terrible, gaping mouth with blackened teeth – but then the blood makes contact, steams where it touches, and the thing falls silent.

Slowly, ever so, it retreats back into the ground.

Wendy is panting, her chest rising and falling rapidly, but the power that she can see in the flowers and hear in the wind is so intoxicating that she does not notice the fatigue that follows. Adrenaline, pure and heady, flows molten through her veins.

Wendy looks up, watching for the tell-tale swell of the branches that signify Peter's return to the island. It does not come. She grins. She had worried that the receipt of blood would alert the boy king, but it appears that the island obeys her more than she had previously thought.

It is with the blood of wolves under her skin that she begins to run, the strength of a Queen in her heart, and the wilderness of a Lost Girl with every footfall. She sprints, tearing across Neverland's soil, her muddied dress billowing out behind her. She dodges trees and plants, twisting round their roots that reach towards her, a ragged laugh tearing from her lips.

She reaches Pirate's Cove within minutes, and Hook is waiting.

The handsome Captain stands on the bow of the _Jolly Roger, _his impressive black coat swishing round his ankles. Stubble covers his cheeks, and a cocky smile quirks at his lips once he sees her racing towards him.

"Ahoy, girlie!" he calls, waving his good hand. His tone is ironic, customary when it comes to Wendy Darling, Peter's play thing.

She reaches the sand, but only slows to a halt when the grime of her boots meets the cold water of the cove. "Captain," she says as way of greeting, "how am I to board your good ship?"

Wendy schools her features into something sweet, masking the snarl that threatens to curve at her upper lip. She hides her bloodied hand behind her back, moving the belt that clings to her waist so the dagger it holds is somewhat hidden in the folds of her dress.

Hook shoots her a charming grin. "There's a ladder at the side, girlie." He points to the belly of the ship, where a younger pirate tosses a rope ladder over the side, promptly.

_Who are _you _to call _me '_girlie'? _Wendy fumes silently, but begins to wade into the ocean in place of shouting abuse. "Thank you." She tells him kindly, through her teeth, highly conscious of the fact that her dress is _white._

Any filth is soon washed away by the chilly water, and the fabric becomes more translucent with each step. She mutters curses to herself as she is submerged up to her hips, taking pains to avoid the crushing weight of the ship that shifts forward with each wave.

"Alright there, girlie?" comes Hook's smug voice as she grasps the first rung of the ladder.

She looks up, seeing him and every other member of his crew leering over the side. "Just fine, sir. Although, my arms are terribly weak, and my legs not much better. Climbing is more suited to the strength and wisdom of men, I think." She simpers, but he doesn't seem to get the hint.

Normally, Wendy would scramble up the ladder faster than any boy who dared challenge her, but appearing weak to Hook is in her best interests. So, she takes her time, glancing at the water below every so often, and taking regular pauses to whimper pointedly.

Eventually, she clambers onto the deck, mustering up every ounce of prim London cordiality she has left in her. Which, admittedly, isn't much. Her fingers itch to the dagger on her hip, seeking its reassurance, but she keeps them folded behind her back. Her chin is dipped demurely when it _should _be raised, her lips curled not in a derisive snarl but a prudish half-smile.

Disgusting.

The pirates stand in a semi-circle around her, Hook at the centre. They gawp openly at her sodden gown, and it is then that Wendy realises that the last time they saw her, she had been but a girl. _Three years, _she thinks, and it is only in the last few that she has grown. She is, presumably, about sixteen, and her hips and chest and face are clear indicators of this.

There is alarm in their gazes, hunger edging in around their eyes. Wendy does her best to appear frightened.

"Hello, girlie." Hook murmurs, tilting his head to look at her.

He lets his gaze rake over her form, obviously trying to make her squirm. She appeases him, fidgeting uncomfortably. She forces a stutter. "G-good morning, sir."

She might have tried a curtsy, had every cell in her body not cried out against it.

He beckons lazily with two ring-encrusted fingers. She fights the rage that swells in her breast at the gesture, biting her tongue.

"Come, then, girlie. Tink tells me we have much to discuss." Hook strides to his Captain's quarters, heavy boots thudding against the worn wood of the deck, and she follows.

* * *

The cabin is illustrious as Hook himself, decked out with gleaming wood along the walls and floors, expensive (and likely stolen) paintings of worlds she doesn't recognise, and various golden ornaments. Glass cases filled with all kinds of bottled potions stand, polished to perfection.

A glistening table, large enough to seat ten people, stands at the centre. A plush, wine-red chair sits at its head, and only two other chairs are positioned at either side. Silver plates, complete with greasy meat and plump fruits are placed on its surface.

Candles illuminate the room, dripping wax onto their holders. The light casts distorted shadows across his handsome features, but she can still see the appraising glance he gives at the way her dress clings to her form.

"You can stop the weak little lass act, girlie," he tells her as soon as the heavy door to his chambers is closed, "I know what you are."

Wendy doesn't bother feigning indignation. "Then you know why I'm here." She states, pursing her lips. She stands facing him, head-on, her back to the door. He has made his way over to the head of his table, one hand on his luxuriant chair.

_What do you think I am?_ She wonders, knowing he can't possibly comprehend the complexity that stretches under her skin. How can he know of the steel that sits on her back? How can he begin to imagine the wolf that prowls down her spine? How can he look at her and see the crown, the ferocity, the _blood_?

If one thing is certain, it is that Hook knows _nothing _of what she is.

She drops her arms from where they crossed over her breasts, and watches his eyes dart to where her nipples are visible through the soaked fabric of her gown, then back up to her face. As easy as breathing, Wendy has found her leverage.

"Yes. You want to kill Pan."

Wendy nods.

"And you need my help?"

"Mm-hmm." She hums, reaching up to comb her hair back from her shoulders. The motion makes her breasts move under her dress and she watches, satisfied, as he sits heavily in the plush chair at the head of his table. His hook glistens in the candlelight as he reaches for a solid-looking goblet, no doubt brimming with wine. He takes a long draught, watching her over the rim.

Hook leans back, passing a hand over his mouth. It makes no difference; his lips are still cherry red when he drops it, with a thud, back to the table. He wets his lips. "Take a seat," he tells her, waving at the chair next to him.

Wendy moves towards him, and when his gaze flicks away she slyly undoes the top button of her dress. She sits, propping her elbows on the table, and leans forward to meet his eyes.

"I can get you what you want." She says, quietly, and his expression darkens at the way she drips honey over her words.

"And what's that, girlie?" He takes another sip of wine, keeping his eyes resolutely fixed to her face.

"Don't call me that." She snaps, but, like Peter, he only raises an eyebrow.

"Alright." He murmurs, shrugging. He doesn't seem perturbed by her abrupt change in temper.

She wonders if Tink warned him. "You want magic beans," she says slowly, watching for his reaction, "and I can get you them."

Hook lowers the cup. "How?"

Wendy lifts her chin. "Soon, Peter will realise I'm not on Neverland. He'll come after me, of course."

The pirate's expression becomes stormy, anger cloaking his mouth. "You were supposed to leave –"

"After only an hour, yes," she waves an impatient hand, "but I'm not going to."

He laughs, cruelly, rubbing his thumb across his bottom lip. "I'll toss you overboard meself, lass, if it comes to that. What will you do then?"

Wendy gives him a cold, forbidding smile. She pours every ounce of hatred she holds for Peter Pan into it, every flame licking at her feet, every howl of the wolf. She curves her lips with sharp teeth peeking through them, letting her fury show behind her eyes. Heat blisters from the narrow slash of her smirk, rage evident in the set of her jaw. She leans forward, and hisses, "I'll slit your _fucking _throat."

Hook recoils, jerking back in his chair. She doesn't let him speak.

"You'll set sail, _now. _Keep me in your cabins. Only let me out when Peter arrives, of course, and trade me for one magic bean."

"Is that it?" he's still shocked at the anger within her, but he is still Captain Hook and refuses to let it quiver in his voice. "_That's _the grand scheme?"

"No." Wendy snaps. "Stop interrupting. You'll take the magic bean. But it's not the one I've promised you, not yet. You go to Baelfire's world –" he visibly flinches at the word, just as she knows he would, " – and you'll bring me a dagger."

"I take it," Hook murmurs, "that this dagger is a magical item?"

"Yes. Dark and light combined, enough to kill a boy whose heart is made of the same stuff."

"And once he's dead, I get my beans?"

"Of course."

He fixes her with a calculating look, chewing on his lip. "And why are you only doin' this now, lass?"

She crosses her arms. "I've nothing to lose." She answers, simply.

Hook's eyes drop to her breasts, the tops of which are peeking through the open neck of her gown. There is another part to her plan, of course, but the pirate doesn't need to know this.

Her leverage.

If Peter killed Felix for putting a knife to her throat, his loyal follower and most trusted Lost Boy, then there is no limit to the rage that will fill him when he finds out that Wendy let the Captain fuck her. He'll want to _torture _him, to paint Neverland red with blood.

The boy king thinks he owns her, and the boy king never shares his toys.

The only thing that could possibly save Hook will be whatever kills Peter. She wants to make sure he feels he _needs _it, and perhaps the fury eating up the both of them will allow her to simply sit back and watch the whole thing play out. No need to get her hands dirty.

(no need to see his eyes when he knows you've killed him)

* * *

When Hook returns to his cabin, the gentle swaying of the ship signalling that they have set sail, Wendy has cast her dress and shoes aside.

She stands, naked, next to her chair, her fingers idly tracing the swell of her breasts.

"Lass –" Hook starts, but shudders to a halt. He stares, open-mouthed, as she gestures to where her nightgown hangs over the table, still dripping sea water onto the polished wooden floors. His eyes drops to her hips, her legs, tracing Peter's bite marks with a gaze as heavy as his fingers.

"My clothes were too wet." She tells him, as way of explanation, flicking her thumbs over her nipples. He inhales, shakily. "I had nothing to change into."

Without taking his eyes off her, the pirate shrugs off his own coat and tosses it in her direction. Of course, it lands somewhere off to one side, not at all close to the mark. "Wear that." He commands, gruffly.

"I'm not cold." She replies, taking a few steps forward. He visibly tenses, and she stops, biting her lip.

Hook closes his eyes briefly, reaching behind him. Wendy hears the _click _of a lock being fastened, and smiles.

(there are more ways than one to lock things up)

He sighs, but when he opens his eyes he doesn't look away from her. He points at her seat. "Don't think I'll play your silly game, lass. Sit down. Eat."

She raises an eyebrow at him, her grin widening. He's playing right into her hands, poor thing, and has not an inkling. He thinks her game is simple, one-sided manipulation. He thinks she means to own _him, _and he'll part her legs willingly, thinking that he cannot be tamed. Thinking that _he _can own _her. _

(no man alive can cage a wolf)

"You first."

Hook does as requested, keeping one wary eye trained on her as he returns to his own plush chair. She watches, amused, as he takes pains not to allow the tented part of his trousers to show.

It's not as if Wendy goes unaffected, though. The Captain is handsome, with a chiselled jaw and charming grin. The hunger in his eyes sparks a simmering heat in her belly, the kind that makes her heart beat faster and her mouth go dry with desire, but of course she doesn't show this.

She walks towards him slowly, with a kind of predatory grace she has never coaxed into her muscles before. She's used to the wilderness of Neverland, being slammed up against trees and fucked on the forest floor. She's used to bite marks, scratches left by blunt fingernails. It occurs to her that Hook is harder to seduce than Peter ever was. Then again, the Captain is not a boy whose self-restraint is as non-existent as his heart.

Wendy seats herself directly in front of the pirate, pushing his dinner out of the way, leaning back on her hands.

His nostrils flare, and he takes a moment to drag his eyes from her chest to her face. "What are you doing, lass?" he asks, quiet.

"Sitting," she replies nonchalantly, extending her leg to skim a toe up his thigh. She's close enough to rest it right next to his cock. She applies a light pressure, wetting her lips as he lets a rumbling hum escape his lips. "_Eating_."

Hook rears up out of his chair before she can blink, and pulls her to him by her calves. Her hips slam against his, her nipples dragging over the fabric of his shirt. He looks down at her, hungrily, sliding his good hand up to cup her breast. She winds her arms round his neck, reaching up to slant her mouth over his.

The Captain doesn't kiss like Peter. It's slow, steady, _passionate. _He kisses gently at first, prising open her lips, and then it's as if he's trying to burn her alive – his stubble scratches against her chin as he moans into her mouth. Wendy grinds her core on his cock, biting at his lips. He hisses and pulls away, reaching down to rub her clit. She cries out, her fingernails scrabbling at his neck. He seems to be searching for something in her expression. Her teeth sink into her bottom lip. His eyes drop to her mouth, her heaving chest, and whatever thought he'd had before is replaced only by lust.

Hook presses his lips to her neck, moving his hand from her core, rocking his hips against hers so she can feel his arousal against her thigh. She gives a muffled groan as heat spirals through her, and he puts his mouth to her ear to whisper, "I'll do the eatin', lass,".

Wendy gives a strangled laugh, clawing at his shirt. He reaches back to help, casting off his clothes and leather strap that keeps his hook in place. She draws him back to her with the legs circled around his waist, scratching her nails down his bare chest.

He leans forward to suckle at her breast, lapping over one nipple with tongue and teeth. She keens, arching her back, and reaches down to wrap her fingers around his cock. He's bigger than _him_, hard and hot and heavy in her palm, but the reaction when she traces the head against her wet core is the same.

Hook grunts, taking his mouth from her breast. He kisses her again, desperately, with none of the anger that Peter pours into every caress. He cradles her face with his good hand, but Wendy doesn't want him to be _gentle. _She wants him to leave a mark, to put his scent all over her and make sure that Peter sees it.

She leans her forehead against the pirate's, swivels her hips in a way that makes him _groan, _and tells him, "_fuck me._ Please,"

The Captain of the _Jolly Roger _is nothing if not hospitable.

He slams her down onto the table, hard enough to make the cutlery rattle. He thrusts into her, using one hand to pin her wrists above her head, leaning over her and swallowing her cries with his kisses.

She digs her heels into the base of his back, rolling her hips to meet his, kissing him back with everything she has.

Wendy tries to ignore the fact that his muscle is too hard under her fingers, his touch too gentle even with his bruising grip, his kisses lacking in bite. She attempts, in vain, to be content without her game. Without competition.

(without her king)

It is only when they are both sated, when Hook leaves her to dress herself, that she allows her eyes to slip closed and imagine that a cruel boy with knife-smiles is there to hold her while she sleeps.


	6. Darkest of Crowns

_Darkest of Crowns_

The Pan sits on his Wendy-bird's bed, shoulders hunched and sharp elbows pressed in his thighs. He tangles his fingers in his clump of hair, pulls it, remembering how she used to do the same, in tandem with the pleasure-induced shudders wracking her body. His head is bowed, the crown of thorns slipping.

He'd come back from the treasure hunt only hours before, irritated from a fruitless search. There'd been no gold – it was a false trail – and now he knows why.

It had been a stupid mistake on his part, to not question why such a precious map hadn't been coveted and guarded by Killian. It was a distraction. A way to get Pan and his boys out of the camp, safe for the pirates to pass through. And now, Pan has lost his most valuable prize.

His Wendy. Gone, with the pirates. He spoke with the mermaids, goaded them with jewels (a trick he learned from _her, _an age ago) and they said that the girl had been stolen by Hook. They said that he'd come to the island and left with his bird.

They said he'd seen her bathing, and his motives had changed from greed for magic beans to lust for Wendy's body.

How long has it been since the pirates saw her last? Two years, three? They have changed (his mouth twists at the words _grow up,_ spits them out as unborn phrases), all of them, and Wendy's transition from little mouse to something closer to woman will not go unnoticed.

The Pan feels a growl rip through him at the thought of Hook's rebellion. Wendy is _his,_ and the realisation that the fire in her veins might burn another, that the bites on her thighs will be from the mouth of that drunken _fool_ makes his spine lock and a snarl hiss through his jagged teeth.

He should have torn out her heart and buried it long ago. He should have stolen the feathers on her breath as soon as her pretty white feet touched Neverland's soil, ripped her wings away. He should have relished the way muscle tore from flesh, the delicious sound it made (like a beast sucking gristle in between bones) as tendons snapped – piece by bloody piece. He should have _broken _her. But he'd been an idiot; enchanted by her wide eyes and pink mouth, her porcelain skin and all that _fire –_ the flames that scorched her bones, the ones that not even the oppressive London society could douse, ones that grew to a towering inferno amongst his kindling fingers.

Had anyone else run from him as many times as she had, had anyone else defied him, they would most certainly have died a grisly death. Felix was a testament to that. Slit throat, heart crushed, spine torn from their back – did it matter? Ice snaps his rage, but not her neck.

(never, _never_)

The Pan's cruelty knows no bounds. This is not unfamiliar. He is a terrible, cold thing, spawned from the blackest belly of the forest. He thrives on evil, laps it up as if it's sweetest elixir, ties it to his soul. It sustains him, makes him _prosper_. His sinister nature is what makes the games so _fun_. The darkness in his Lost Boys' hearts gives him strength, and he feasts on their nightmares. Yet, still the girl lives. The bird that haunts him so remains free of his bloody thorns.

He feels her still, feels her teeth on his bones like ghosts – and he wants her so much, wants her like _burning._ She's crawled inside his skin and made her home amongst his thoughts, made sure the image of her – moaning, naked, _wet,_ all for him – is singed behind his eyes. He can't imagine not having her, by his side, in his bed.

His knife-grins can cut through purity like frost blooming across windows, yet he cannot escape a simple _girl._

(he should have learned by now that girls are worse than boy kings and stronger by far)

Wendy is all he can think of. He wants her _here, _in the cage of his arms. As fascinating her fire is, it needs to be contained – the Pan wants her glorious flame trapped in a pretty glass jar, for his own amusement. To play with when_he_ wants. These chasing games are fun, but he knows all too well that Wendy has too much ground to stand on.

He's been weak, of late. Giving her such a free reign – should've pulled her to find the treasure by the fucking _hair_ – that she has the gall to _deny him_ and he just… let her. Even kissed her goodbye, drawing her closer with his arms round her waist, promising he'd be back soon. Like some sentimental idiot, cooing at his lady wife.

(love in your heart, boy, blood on your hands)

He's too soft. He let her girlish _tricks_ confuse him – her breasts, her soft skin, her hot mouth – and as a result he let her out of his sight.

Birds are meant to have their wings clipped. He intends to rip them to shreds.

Wendy is far too wild, now.

(it bleeds black into neverland but he doesn't want her broken)

He scoffs through gritted teeth. It's ironic, really. Wendy always wanted to be a pirate. The Pan knows, even if she doesn't say. He knows her better than anyone – inside out, to the core, from her lips to her feet.

She wants to be feared, wants to be ruler, so much so that he briefly entertains the thought that she'll kill Hook and sail back to him as Red-Handed Jill, a gleaming sword in hand and a kiss ready for him –

The Pan growls, shakes his head. Given the chance, Wendy would never come back. She would travel from world to world, until every single one chimed with songs of her ferocity, of the bright flash of her teeth like steel. She would set sail with the wind at her back, someone else's sword, and a crew bound to her in blood. She would leave him without a thought.

He'd do the same – why does he feel bitter? It's Neverland that made her, that sheared away the soft skin to give way for the steel. The fire was always there, but it was the sharp of his cruelties that taught Wendy how to make things_bleed_ with the force of her ambition.

He should be glad. Proud, even, of what he's made. And now she's almost there, upon the waves. The pirate has her. He's a _man,_ and although he could never be Husband, never be _Bae, _he's closer than Pan ever was. He's handsome enough to tempt Wendy's desire - he's seen the way a blush crept to her neck at one of Hook's roguish winks, and she's made it plain she doesn't want to belong to Pan. The pirate will have her taste on his drunken tongue by now.

Pan wonders if Wendy likes the flavour of wine.

He chokes on that thought, kicks out and the toe of his boot connects with her little table. The wood splinters at the force, books sliding to the floor. His rage flares; he roars, the noise of it pulsing through Neverland. He feels the waters ripple, the trees sway.

_Good, _he thinks. He wants Killian to know he's coming.

He flexes his fingers, _wishes,_ and the books burst into flame. The ink runs, the fire flashing green for but a moment.

The Pan stares at them, bores his eyes into the crackling light, but nothing can will away the images that flood to mind - Hook and Wendy, together. Touching. Kissing. Fucking. That disgusting _man_ and his ugly breath, tainting his Wendy's skin.

There's something awful in his chest, howling for his bird to fly back to him. It screams in his throat, makes his fingers turn to claws and tighten in her bed sheets.

He rips them apart, hisses and curses cracking in his throat (growing, growing you cruel boy). He throws every single one of the pretty glass pieces she keeps on her drawers and shatters them against the wall, squeezes them until his hands bleed.

(nothing takes what is _mine_)

Pan walks to where his Lost Boys are waiting, their hands shaking and eyes uneasy.

"Boys," he declares, "we're going on another treasure hunt. Bring your bloodthirst."

When the feral grin curls at the corner of his mouth, flashing needle teeth, his putrid heart beats quicker at the thought of taking his revenge.

* * *

The moment Peter arrives back to the Lost Boys' camp to find her gone, Wendy feels it.

She's sitting down for her third dinner with Captain Hook – meaning, it is her third night on the ship – when a shockwave pulses through the waters to the belly of the _Jolly Roger. _It rattles the cutlery, shakes the crystal glasses in their cases, tilts the paintings. Her goblet of rich, cherry wine (she's not fond of the taste, but Hook seems to love alcohol best when it's taken from her lips) tips over into her lap.

The liquid blooms across the pure white of her dress, and of course it looks just like blood. An omen, perhaps.

The wind picks up a second after, carrying his screeching rage with each gust. It buffets the ship, tips it from side to side, sending grapes tumbling along the length of Hook's grand table. The seas whip against the side of the _Jolly Roger_, great big splashes reaching over and sopping onto the deck. The dark wood is awash with foam, with salt. The whole of Neverland _shifts._

Wendy rolls her eyes. "Peter's always had a penchant for the dramatics." She says, dryly, but traitorous fear hums through her, sharp and cold.

Hook's gaze shifts from the roof of his cabin, which is currently dripping seawater, to where her hands are folded in her lap, stained with wine. "His_dramatics _usually end up with people dead."

She shrugs, nonchalant, even though the thought of sweet, naïve Tootles with Peter's hands round his throat keeps resurfacing in her mind's eye. "Sometimes we have to make certain sacrifices to get what we want."

The Captain lounges back in his chair, tapping his hook against the smooth surface of the table. He wets his lips before speaking. "And what _do _you want, lass?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

At this, Hook lets out a husky chuckle, one he _knows _makes her want to straddle his hips and kiss him till he reaches under her dress. She shifts. "You'd think so," he tells her, "but you're a more _complex _little thing than I thought."

Wendy raises an eyebrow. "I'm _not_ little."

He tilts his head at her, a smirk playing on his lips. "P'rhaps not."

In many ways, Captain Hook is reminiscent of Peter. He's smug, for one. Confident. Charming. Handsome, disarmingly so, and very secure in his knowledge of this. Perhaps this is what has made fucking him easier for Wendy – she can find small comforts in the way he hooks his elbow under her leg, the way he groans from the very _pit_ of him, all things that remind her of Neverland's king.

(_her _king)

Yet, she can't help but wish he wasn't as _soft._ When she pinpointed this exact thought, drew the words to the forefront of her mind, she had scoffed. Wendy Moira Angela Darling, wishing that the pirate she was using as a tool of revenge was _crueller? _It seems a horrid joke, at times, what her life has become. She's both a scrap of a girl and so much _better_; more and less, stronger and weaker, all crammed into one messy tangle of steel and sunrise and teeth and blood.

She hides this from Hook. Hides many things; conceals the sharpest points of her beneath the smooth of her brow. She's naked more often than not in front of him, yet she's never been more guarded. She doesn't scrape her teeth against his skin, doesn't growl, _never _makes him bleed. The roughest she gets is scratching her nails down his back, and even that makes him pause. She tells herself it's to keep up appearances, to play the child, but the words _I'll slit your fucking throat _rise to her lips and she knows it's fruitless. She knows that, deep down, the worst parts of her are for Peter, and Peter alone.

She can tell Hook sees it in her, the ferocity. The wolf. She gets the feeling he's long used to seeing steel in the women who have been long overlooked – perhaps he's been stung too many times by girls he had thought weak. When she tells him of her plans, when her eyes alight at the thought of revenge, of freedom, she knows he's looking at the steel in her heart.

"I haven't been able to decide," Hook muses, pressing his fingertips to the rim of his goblet as another tremor rattles the ship, "whether you seek freedom or queendom."

"You think I want to rule Neverland?" she asks, and it takes strength to keep her laugh bright.

He scoops the goblet up, takes a gulp. "Yes, lass, I do." He says, his words spoken throatily in the aftermath of drink.

"I'm not cut out to be a Queen." She lies.

Truth be told, it's a tempting vision; run with Tootles and Tink and even Rufio, forever, free to let Hook visit her when she pleases. She thinks of how the flowers bloomed for her despite how her heart has blackened, as if they remembered the sunrise and the way she used to care. She thinks of blood on dirt and cream, of how the thorns opened their grotesque mouth to devour her and how she never flinched.

Perhaps she should have plucked a few from the thicket and made herself a crown.

Hook cradles the goblet to his chest, and shrugs. "Maybe not. But you _want _it."

Irritation, hot and insistent, flares up in her throat. Wendy doesn't let it show. Doesn't let him realise his words have insulted her. Instead, she stands, and lets her dress fall to the ground, effectively shutting him up.

She's not bothered with underwear since the first time with the Captain, yet his reaction is always the same. He sets his precious wine down with an audible _thunk, _tongue sliding out to wet his already-moistened lips.

"Where?" he asks, huskily, and she smiles.

Hook is a wild, wild man. He sails around Neverland with the wind in his coat-tails, hardly ever settling, usually drinking, always the alpha. He commands authority with every step, easy as breathing. Yet, he always acts with obedience when her body is concerned. This both pleases and frustrates her; his deference is well-deserved, but Wendy always, _always _finds herself longing for something more demanding.

She does not seek submission – she wants a game.

She gestures to his chair, for him to stand. He does so without question, and she sinks into the plush upholstery with a sigh. "Teach me something new," she tells him.

He pushes the chair away from the table, so he can kneel in front of her. She's sitting with her ankles crossed, her hands folded neatly in her lap. It's a far cry from what she's used to; hands and knees, back in the grass, and it doesn't sit as comfortable as she'd have liked, but today Wendy is in the mood to be worshipped. To forget.

Hook's dark eyes glimmer in a way that's _so _different to Peter – there's a respect shining in his black irises that isn't born from teeth and cruel, sharp words. He gazes up at her, a rough palm smoothing over her knee. He pushes her legs apart, gently, lifting them so they drape over the arm rests of his chair. She tips her head back, looking to the ceiling. Brushes her fingertips across the top of her creamy thighs, through the downy mass of curls at her core, up and over her stomach to pinch at peachy nipples.

Wendy mewls, rolling her head to look back down at him.

The handsome pirate stares at her, hungrily. It's nothing compared to the all-consuming, ice-cold desire that alights in Peter's eyes, but it still makes heat spark to her cunt. She spreads her legs wider. Hook leans forward, pressing a kiss to the top of her mound.

She sighs, wriggling, but the light touch of his hand on her thigh makes her settle. _Harder, _she thinks, but of course he doesn't hear. She wants him to bruise her, to mark her, but he won't. The worst he does is suck purple bruises onto her neck.

(more than enough to make him pay)

He drops a chaste peck to the crease of her inner thigh, smirking when she breathes out a shaky gasp.

Wendy almost rolls her eyes. He thinks her the innocent, of course. Not quite a virgin; he'd felt that there was no barrier, hadn't asked. But he most likely presumes that her experience of sex was a quick, rough coupling with Peter that had no art to it, no pleasure.

(wrong wrong _wrong_)

Hook's pithy attempts at manipulation, at teasing, are mere child's play compared to the elaborate games she conducts with Neverland's king. His superiority is patronising in the extreme, and at times she can barely restrain herself from curling her fingers round his throat. Shaking him. Telling him that his life is brittle as bird's bone, and that snapping it into blistered halves requires but an ounce of her concentration.

However, Wendy finds she rather likes Hook. And, she needs him, however loath to admit _that _she is.

"Please," she breathes, "oh, _please_ –"

It is nothing to make her voice weak and fragile, but the strain it puts on her pride is something else altogether. She looks down at his expression, the roguish grin that holds such male charisma and dominance, none of the boyish cruelties that Peter has, and whines. It's easier to let him think he's the puppeteer if she knows she's getting pleasure from it.

Hook gives her cunt a long, wet lick. She bucks her hips, tangling her fingers in his hair, but the dark mop of it is too thin, too short. He licks her again, lapping at her clit. The rough scrape of his stubble rasps against her, sending spirals of delicious heat straight to her core.

When he speaks, his voice is rumbling and throaty with desire. "You've such a pretty cunt, lass." He murmurs, pressing his lips to her centre in emphasis.

The words are enough to make her gasp genuine. "What?" she asks, chest heaving.

He ignores her, instead tracing the tip of his tongue over her clit in small, tight circles. She shudders, moaning, lifting her buttocks off the seat of the chair and pressing into his mouth. The chuckle he lets loose at this shoots vibrations up her spine.

"Did you let Pan do this?" he asks, abruptly.

Wendy pauses. It's a game; one the pirate has taken his time to establish. He wants to measure her alliance to Peter, to see if she can follow through with the betrayal.

Fury, sharper than pleasure, swells in her breast. Does he think her a coward? She looks down to his raised eyebrow, to where he's paused in his ministrations. He stares back at her with the thirst of the game in his eyes.

A challenge, one he thinks she cannot compete in, has become evident.

Pride, fierce and straight-backed, joins the mix. It sends steel coursing to her fingertips; she tightens her hold on his hair. "Yes." She replies, through gritted teeth.

(the wolf prowls behind them let her out _let her out_)

He grazes his tongue over her clit, tracing some pattern there. It's delicate, pinpointed, _focused_ and the pleasure that washes over her is an ice-cold burn, nothing like the way Peter licks broad stripes between her thighs, kissing as if to devour the taste of her. The pirate is more skilled, certainly, but even through the haze of desire, she still wishes for her old games. This sort of torture builds up in her abdomen, slowly – Peter's methods felt as if the night sky was unfolding in her blood.

"You like it when he tastes you," Hook purrs, his voice low and velvet, "you like it when he puts his tongue in you."

Wendy moans, nodding, barely able to form words. Her hips are grinding, slowly, against his mouth. Wetness rolls down her buttocks, down her thighs, smeared by the Captain's chin and cheeks.

"Tell me, lass," he whispers, "what does he do?"

She cries out, throwing her head back, and the wolf's howl builds in her throat. It bubbles there, waiting to boil over. A simmering wilderness that, on Neverland, could not have been kept in check.

This is new. This is _different. _The only words Peter ever says to her during one of their trysts against the soil are orders, simple commands accompanied by the sting of his fingernails, or her name groaned against her skin – there's none of this… _talk_.

The raw heat of it makes pleasure, pure and heady, lash through her core. White-hot and blinding, it sends electric currents zinging up and down her spine, and she whimpers as her hips buck forward. Hook gives her cunt a scorching kiss, urging her to speak.

"H-he makes me beg for it," Wendy whispers, moaning and arching her back.

The Captain rewards her by slipping his hand from her thigh, to her cunt, and pushing his long index finger into her soft heat. She grinds down on it, crying out loud enough to be heard even over the din that is Hook's crew singing, drunkenly, over their dinner. He suckles, once, on her clit, and she can feel the pressure building in her abdomen, but he stops – speaks.

"Why?" he asks, words slurring as if he's drunk on her body rather than liquor, intoxicated by the pleasure that rolls off her in waves. "Tell me, why?"

"He knows – he knows I hate it." Wendy shivers as she feels the pirate's smile curling against her most intimate flesh, his finger pumping slowly in and out.

(not enough not _nearly _enough)

Her buttocks are still lifted off the chair; her muscles tensed, sweat beads at the back of her thighs and rolls to her knees in salty rivulets.

"You begged for me," he reminds her, eyebrow raised in question.

She wants to snarl in his face, hiss insults that spit poison in the air, tell him _it won't matter in the end you stupid man because Peter will die and the wolf will go free and the queen shall be crowned when I beg it is for your _death – she wants to tell him that _he _should be the one begging her, for _mercy. _Her pride spurs on the beast that growls, low in her throat, but reason muffles its threats.

He's played himself into a corner, thinking he's got her where she needs to be; but this is her chance to solidify the fragile alliance she's managed to forge between them. This is her chance to convince him that she wants Pan dead.

(convince herself, too)

So, Wendy dampens her pride. She lets loose an earth-shattering moan, gasping and _long, _and the singing outside the cabin grows louder in an attempt to drown them out. "Because I want you," she tells him, "I want you –".

The triumph that flickers in his gaze as he leans up to kiss her is proof enough that she has fooled him.

In truth, she wants only Peter.

Hook rids himself of trousers and shirt quickly enough, and Wendy smooths her hands over his hard, rippling muscles as she wraps her legs around his waist. His cock is hot against her cunt, and she tilts her hips back to grind down on it in a desperate plea for friction. He groans into her open mouth, pressing her back against the chair.

The pleasure that builds, low in her gut, begins to roil and spit, and she takes him in her hand, pumps him slowly.

The Captain doesn't buck into her fist like Peter does; he's all slow, steady thrusts, long and deep, until she guides him into her heat. He stops, gouges his hook into the soft, plush material of the chair next to where her head is leaned back against it, pulsing inside her. He kisses her again, his lips slick and warm.

"What do you want?" he asks her, pulling back to whisper the words against her jaw.

She whines, trying to move her hips, but he holds her firmly in place. She falls silent for a moment, breathing heavily, her chest heaving against Hook's.

He's immobile, waiting for her reply.

_Bastard, _she thinks.

"I want you to –" she swallows, knowing he'll be expecting more than a _fuck me_this time, "I want you to make me come – I want your hands on my breasts –"

Hook begins to move, agonisingly slow, with smooth thrusts. He presses his hand into her hip, just short of bruisingly, swiping his thumb over the jut of her pelvis. He licks her neck, lapping the salt that has collected there.

Wendy presses her thighs to his sides in an urge for him to quicken his pace, but he only chuckles, and continues rolling his hips at a torturously lax rhythm. "What else, love?" he asks.

"Faster – oh – _faster,_" she gasps, but he doesn't oblige.

He simply laughs again, his mouth at her neck. "I _like _you, lass," he whispers, "I like your pretty mouth and your cunt – so _pink _and wet – but you'll have to do better than that."

She sucks in a breath through her teeth, whining. She feels him begin to slow, and before his movements stop completely she puts her lips to his ear and groans, "too gentle – you're too gentle – I want you to _fuck _me, Hook, and I want you to bend me over the table and take me from behind,"

The pirate hisses, increasing his pace. Their hips circle in slow, easy movements, but the heat is palpable. He presses a bruising kiss at the place her neck meets her jaw, but it's _still _too soft.

"I want you to mark me," Wendy continues, tilting her pelvis to take him deeper, "bite me, bruise me, make me _yours, _Captain –"

It seems that the uttering of his title is what breaks his control. With a strangled shout, Hook pulls away from her, and for a moment she thinks she's lost but then he pulls her towards him, pushes her to the table.

She stumbles, but recovers with ease and settles with her hands planted on the table's surface and her legs spread.

He thrusts into her in one movement of his hips, fills her, and she can't help the frenzied moan that spills from her parted lips.

"Fuck," the pirate murmurs, and then he's slamming into her recklessly, his fingers digging into her waist with a bite that makes her skin feel as if it's bursting open, blistering with pleasure.

Wendy arches her back, keening, and when he hits _that spot _within her, she comes. She cries out, white-hot spasms wracking her body, and a little of the wolf spills from her – she _growls, _cursing, reaching down to rub her clit. Her muscles clench around his cock, and he follows, his thrusts becoming erratic, a hoarse groan pulling itself from the bottom of his throat.

They barely have time to disentangle themselves (the afterglow is never long, with Hook – he prefers to leave almost immediately) before there's a pounding on the door.

"I'm _busy!_" the Captain barks, going to his cupboard and tossing Wendy a spare shirt, since her dress lies sullied by wine on the floor.

The clothing is so big that it falls just above her knees anyway, and her belt serves to cinch it around the waist. She rolls up the sleeves, eyeing the door.

"Cap'n –" comes a frantic voice, holding a note of panic that makes them both freeze, "Cap'n – it's _him, _come for the girl."


End file.
